In fly fishing, we call this "pocket water." That's a wonderful turn of a phrase.
This sort of water can hold surprisingly large fish. It holds small fish, too.
These little feeders can be quite cool when spring fed and the pools can hold large trout who have made their way up towards the cooler and more heavily oxygenated water.
A nice 12" brown trout in a little pool like this makes it all worthwhile.
I'm focusing on language tonight. That's something I think all of us love to do but it gets lost sometimes in the pressure of plot and characterization.
I love the local language of villages. I think of phrases like "son of a buck" and "nevercould." The first is sort of a civilized expression of exasperation. The second is a type of admission that something is beyond the speaker.
"How'd that horse you bought from Smithson work out? He turn into a cutter?"
"Seventeen hundred dollars worth."
I have a story in which the speech the protagonist uses to let us know his mind is the delicate balance of the story's immersion. I break the trance, I lose the story.
I'm working on it.
I'm not willing to see it turn nevercould.