Naga

The hood opened before the face did. A naga rose from the wet stone, human above, cobra below, or a crowned snake with the old sacred weight in the neck. People who came for water forgot the jar. They left with a naga gift of that slow lift. It shows again in naga playing cards that gleam like wet scale, in a naga notebook whose line curves like a body, in a naga postcard of the hood and the still eye. The pool closes. The hood does not.