Boston is a city built partly on made ground — Back Bay's brownstone blocks laid over old tidal flats, the Charles bending past the Esplanade, the Emerald Necklace threading green from the Fens out toward Jamaica Pond. Lawn care here is small-scale and exacting work: a dooryard plot behind wrought iron, a strip of turf along a granite curb, a courtyard that catches four hours of sun between tall buildings. The job is mowing, feeding, and keeping the edge true where grass meets brick, so that a square of green in a city of stone reads as tended. There is a plain satisfaction in that — the clean stripe, the swept walk, the salt air off the harbor moving over a yard that finally looks the way someone hoped it would.