Franklin Mountain rises north of town, and in a cold March the ridge carries hawks and eagles riding the wind while the pastures below are still brown and waiting. That is when the year starts here: raking the winter out, clearing fallen branches, opening the beds so the first green has somewhere to go. Then come the mowing weeks, hillside after hillside, with trimming around barn corners, stone piles and old apple trees. Rocky, uneven ground makes an even cut something you have to earn, and earning it is the good part of the job. By evening the mown slopes go silver in that hill light and the work looks like it belongs to the place.