Charles Burchfield found his skies not far from here, and anyone mowing in West Seneca in mid-May knows exactly the ones he meant — high and restless, bright in the gaps between showers. Those broken afternoons are the good ones for cutting: the ground firm, the grass standing up, the light long enough to finish the street. A close, even cut with a clean edge does something to a house that no amount of decoration manages. It squares the place up, gives it a border, tells you somebody has been by. That's the whole of the trade around here, and it's plenty.