Mud underfoot, a scrim on my trainers.

Weak finger of sunlight skims on the pond; penetrates, exposes bank below.

Reflection like smoked glass.

Fields painted in shades of newling greenery and patchy browns. Trees stretch upward like grasping hands, arthritic.

Gravel twists and winds like a gray ribbon full of snarls.

Pale sky above, thin wisps of white against blue.

I wonder if the fish notice when leaves or sediment falls.

I wonder if they think it’s rain.