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Sometimes they're pools, sometimes less. Only once have I seen their water move, when snow melt from the hills breathed them life. And then it was more murmuration: a pulse, rather than a current. Small flows rippled and wriggled briefly, but I was there, I saw them.  Curiosity brings intimacy. 
There are marks to be found on the surface.  Sometimes that's all. Trees, reshaped - branches and leaves. Sometimes I'm in there. Sometimes the sky. Fallen to earth: lichen, leaves and the litter of life. As time passes, colours shift. The year changes, and grows new sharp edges. My unease slowly subsides a little as I recognise the value of 'here' and 'now' as a place of ease.
The world above moves: processions of clouds, sun and shadow; branches and eventually - finally - new leaves. Surface reflections shift, nature arranged by the breeze.
It's up close, and it's personal.  A secret world.  It's so close - too close for my new lens to focus.  But then it becomes more interesting. Moss dissolves into stars, or radiates lines. The incipient mess resolves itself into something newly beautiful.  Blur, line, colour.  Everything else disappears.  My brain is clear, my focus absolute.  The water is still, but I flow.
I’ve found a new mark-making.  Within reach, but if I try to touch it - it’s gone.

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