She carves a sugar horse in the yard and waits for the rain. It takes about a day: she’s a quick worker. It’s made from that sweet fondant, they same one they use to make those little pink and white mice, which the children guzzle before school like little sugar kittens, as their cheeks get fat and their whiskers pop. It is dusk by the time she finishes; the mare is roughly life-size, standing, with her head bowed slightly and pointed to the left, looking behind. She sets herself down on her garden chair, stirs a cube into her tea, and looks to the sky.