She went down to the water, because that's where dreaming women went. She was smoke and deep night stars, but they said water and so she went. She knew who she was, really, and still she felt she should look.
A small bird was singing, singing rain. No rain came - because in truth it was singing her name.
After a while she became restless, waterside, a little cold, a little bored. Or a whole lot. She went home, lit incence, opened her curtains to the dark velvet sky, the small white lights over hills. She drank tea with milk.
And her dreams were hill dreams, dark dreams, with no water in them. They were real dreams, just the same.