Murk

Sometimes, I see a hand rise from the murk,

and with surprise, I realize that it is my own.
As all the wet dirt and grime and mud slides down, off the fingers, it looks almost clean, almost normal, as it reaches out for the bark.
But of course, the bark really is a blade of straw.
The mud crashes over my head as I briefly pull the straw down with me before it slips through my fingers and floats back to the surface.

Then, things are as they were.