Freight still comes through Norcross the way it always has, horn first, and the old depot sits beside the tracks watching a town that grew up around a railroad. The Landscaping Brothers work the streets spreading out from there, two sets of hands crossing a yard at once, one on the mower and one on the trimmer, finished before the light goes. Weekly cuts, edged walks, borders held back, beds cleared of whatever the wind delivered. In fall it is leaves off the grass and out of the corners; in spring it is fresh mulch and the first cut of the year, which always feels like an announcement. Two people move quickly, and the yards show it.