The Salt River runs low and green behind the fields east of the village, and the fog off it burns away about the time the first mower starts. Early is the right hour to cut in July here, with the dew gone, the heat not yet arrived, and the lines you lay down holding their shape all week. We mow, we trim close around posts and beds and mailboxes, and we blow the walks clear so nothing tracks indoors. Spring means raking out the winter's mat of old leaves; fall means the long work of getting a yard back down to bare, tidy ground. A New Haven lawn kept on a rhythm looks different from one kept by mood, and the difference shows from the road.