Depressions,

Tend to accrue,

Collections,

And internalize them,

Creating literal,

Littoral gray areas.

Still still,

In the sunlight-

It’s dappled surface,

Slightly evaporated.

It has no mind,

To receive,

What it holds,

But it still becomes,

A pastiche.

Upon inspection,

The surface of the murk,

Projects lurid reflections,

Where not enshrouded,

By leaves,

Or speckled,

By pebbles.