Morning comes to Fargo low and white, fog off the Suwannee lying in the bottoms until the sun cuts a hole through it. That is the hour the mower rolls out, while the grass still holds the night's damp and the air hasn't gone heavy yet. Chips Clips mows, edges and trims yards around town, then blows the clippings clean off the walks and the drive. By the time the fog lifts, the lot is squared away: lines running straight, a sharp border where the lawn meets the concrete. Small work, held to a straight line, in a small place on a big river.