A clipper coming off the plains does not announce itself; it simply arrives over Thirteen Mile after dark and lays down four inches while Warren sleeps. Michigan Lawn and Snow Inc. runs against it through the night, stacking snow at the far corners of parking lots, opening lanes, salting the approaches so the morning finds the place already sorted out. Headlights, an empty lot, the scrape and the push — there is a rhythm to that stretch between midnight and six that exists nowhere else in the day. By the time the lights come on inside a building, the work has erased its own evidence. That is exactly the intent.