By the middle of June, Collinsville hums — cicadas up in the sycamores, sprinklers ticking, and somewhere down the block a mower that has been going since seven. Lawn care at that pitch is a rhythm: straight passes, alternating lines that catch the light, the trimmer around fence posts and swingset legs. Blow the drive, close the gate, move on to the next street. Grass here grows hard through a wet spring and needs a weekly hand to keep from getting away from anybody. The payoff shows up at dusk, when the yard lies flat and even and the whole block smells like cut grass.