At three in the morning the wind comes down Whirlwind Hill with nothing in its way, and Wallingford goes white from the ridge to the valley floor. That is the hour this snow removal outfit is already moving — plowing driveways open, clearing the walk to the door, laying salt and sand on the slick spots before the first car turns over. Ice is the quieter half of the job here, the black glaze that forms after a thaw and hardens again by dark, and it gets the same attention a foot of powder does. By the time the sky goes gray over the rooftops the pavement is dark and wet and passable, and a whole street of people get to have an ordinary morning. There is real satisfaction in that: a driveway squared off to the pavement, a stoop you can walk out onto in shoes.