July evenings run long in this part of Michigan. The sun sits over the fields west of the township until nearly ten, and the light turns gold across everything it touches, including a lawn cut an hour earlier. That last hour is a fine one to work in — the air cooling, fireflies lifting out of the ditch grass while the trimmer finishes along a fence. The service itself stays simple and steady: mowing on a set week, trimming and edging, clippings swept off the concrete. What it adds up to is the feeling of pulling in at dusk to a place that has been kept.