On a January morning the Cumberland runs slate-gray past Ashland City and the fog stands in the hollows until nearly noon. Winter is honest about trees: every crack and dead limb shows plain against the sky, and Pentecost Tree Service reads them then, pruning the sycamore along the fence, trimming back what hangs over a tin roof. Removals go easier while the ground is firm and the leaves are down. When weather comes up the river valley and drops a limb through somebody's driveway, they clear the drive and the wood goes out with them. Come spring the tree that was left standing puts out a fuller crown for the cutting.