USA. The suburbs. My neighbor Dale complimented my lawn, and I understood immediately that war had been declared. It began at dawn on the day of rest. A roar. I went outside. Dale was marching a machine across his grass in perfectly straight lines — alone, unbidden, at first light. Up and down the street, the same scene: men grooming the earth itself, blowing single leaves from one place to another with enormous seriousness. "Gotta stay on top of it!" Dale called over the noise. Stay on top of it. As though the grass, left alone for one week, would rise up and take the house. So I began tending mine. Modestly, at first. And then one morning Dale passed my fence, raised his coffee, and said the words. "Lawn's lookin' good!" In my country, war was declared with messengers and sealed scrolls. Here, it is declared with a compliment about your lawn. I bought an edger. Dale answered with diagonal stripes. I rose at six. The following Saturday, Dale's mower was running at 5:45. We greet each other warmly over the fence, and neither of us has ever acknowledged what is happening, because that is the rule. My back aches in a way I associate with actual combat. I have never been happier. A man does not ask Dale for peace. There is no peace. There is only lawn. My grass is now short enough to disappoint a rabbit. My lines are straight enough to navigate by. Yesterday a man slowed his truck, looked at my yard, nodded once, and drove on. Dale saw it. DALE SAW IT. A lawn, I have learned, is a letter to your street that says: I am still trying. Mine now says it in very straight lines. Saturday, 5:30 a.m. The war continues. Dale does not know it yet. Dale knows.