Fog lies in the Wabash bottoms most autumn mornings, and it burns off around the sycamores about the time the first mower starts. Old Red Landworks runs lawn work through the precinct's gravel-road country — cutting, trimming, edging, and clearing the leaf drop that arrives all at once when the wind swings around to the north. Some of these yards are broad and open to whatever the sky is doing; some sit shaded by trees older than the house. Both get the same attention, and what holds it together is repetition: same route, same week, ground that never gets ahead of you. By the time the machines are loaded there's a row of yards behind you that all look right.