The Indian maiden kneels with her ewer, dappled in last night’s snow. She is cast in plaster, all that remains of a fountain that once graced our back yard. The young girl’s broken base is long gone with the weekly trash, but she survives. Rosemary and yucca surround her, their mantles of white shrinking as the morning progresses. The plants need little water, and perhaps the droplets of snowmelt will suffice until the next uncommon rainfall. By noon, or certainly by sunset, the snow will vanish from the yard.