Out at Squaw Grove the horizon is mostly sky, and the wind crossing it in May carries the smell of cut grass a half-mile down the road. Lawns here are big and plain-spoken — long front yards, ground running out to the crop line, a windbreak of old trees marking where a farmstead starts. The work is weekly mowing through the green months, hand trimming around the light pole and the well head, a cut border where the yard meets the field lane, and the leaves cleared once October takes the trees. Straight lines look right on ground this open; one crooked pass shows for a week. When the elevator's shadow stretches out and a yard is freshly cut, the whole place looks squared away.