Clay. It's rain, dead leaves, dust, all my dead ancestors. Stones that have been ground into sand. Mud. The whole cycle of life and death.

The ground has really been soaked because of the rain. The trees were sliding down upright with the mud.

Don't pray for rain if you are going to complain about the mud.

We stepped carefully, so softly, over thorny plants. The dust had turned to mud, splattering our shoes, socks, and legs. By the time we reached the boat, our clothes were clinging to our flesh and stained with the bloody remains of mosquitoes.

He who slings mud generally loses ground.

Rain, rain falling down
Down, down on the gound
All the birds go in the trees
They don't like the rain, you see.