Fog settles in the American Bottom on autumn mornings and drifts up the bluff into Collinsville, softening every outline until the sun cuts it loose around nine. A yard looks its finest coming out of that — dew silver across the grass, the edge along the walk sharp enough to lay a ruler against. That edge is the pleasure of the job: mowing straight, trimming close, cleaning up so the finish is the last thing anyone notices. The name is a small joke with a yard inside it, and the yard is where the effort actually lands. Neat lines, clean walks, week after week after week.