Artificial Angels

Silver drops dash to and fro betwixt the fallen trunk
and the muddy shore. Unable to slow, unable to go
in a direction without a turn or bend or bump
into a sibling. Blackheads upon the polished reflection
of the firmament, I pick a pebble and drop it down.
They scatter at the plop, but not very far. Again
they appear as the ripples soften and return
to their game of traffic: tick, tock, tick, tock, PLOP!