The year here has two shifts. From thaw to first hard freeze it is mowing across Leslie's flat green blocks and the farmsteads beyond, trimming out the corners, keeping the lines honest week after week. Then the fields go bare, the wind picks up out of the northwest, and the attachment changes: plow on, drives and walks cleared while it is still dark. Very little rest between the two, which the name says plainly. What carries across both is the same instinct — leave the place better than you found it, and leave nothing half-finished at the curb.