Six in the morning, and the low ground outside Carterville is holding fog — soft white sitting over the old strip-pit ponds while the sun works on it. That is the hour to start. Dew burns off by eight and the mowing runs clean after that: the cut, the trim along fence lines and foundations, the edge beside the drive, the blow-off at the end. Out in the precinct the yards are wide and the grass comes on strong after every rain, so the schedule matters more than the speed ever will. There is a quiet satisfaction in leaving a place looking looked-after and then driving away without a fuss.