She kept her water in an olla on the cool back porch, sat cross-legged on the cement floor, dipped the smooth wood ladle, and drank, imagining the pottery’s black swirls to be snakes eating their tails, a pueblo impressionistic ouroboros, bringing together the conscious and unconscious, her known and unknown, her birth and death, swallowing, swallowing, then standing, stretching the car key off the porch like a dowsing rod, waiting to feel a tug, a pull, a wave of something, anything telling her how to become reborn, how to ignite, whether to drive across the desert or stay and drown.