By midafternoon in Riverton, the low winter sun clears the rooftops just long enough to warm half the town's driveways while the other half sit in permanent shadow beneath the bare canopy of decades-old street trees — and the shaded halves are always the ones where the morning's snow refuses to melt off on its own. That's where the plow work matters most: the north-facing drives, the stretch of sidewalk under a stand of bare branches, the spots the sun just won't reach until spring. The town's older streets still carry those rows of mature trees planted decades back, and their shadows map out exactly where ice will linger longest after a storm. Working those cold pockets means going back over the same stretches more than once, breaking up what's refrozen rather than just clearing what fell. There's no shortcut to it — just steady passes back over the same shaded ground until the ice finally stops winning. By evening, with the light gone gray and low, even the shadowed side of Riverton is bare pavement.