Where the Crawdads Sing

by Delia Owens

Laughing or tame or wild . . . Trees and the sun were gone, Everything gone but us. His mother sang in the house, And kept our supper warm, And loved us, God knows how, The wide earth darkened so. And this one by Galway Kinnell. I did care. . . . I did say everything I thought In the mildest words I knew. And now, . . . I have to say I am relieved it is over: At the end I could feel only pity For that urge toward more life. . . . Goodbye.

Surprised the dad didnt burn the book.

AUTUMN WAS COMING; the evergreens might not have noticed, but the sycamores did. They flashed thousands of golden leaves across slate-gray skies.

Loved this description, it painted beautiful visual.

And just at that second, the wind picked up, and thousands upon thousands of yellow sycamore leaves broke from their life support and streamed across the sky. Autumn leaves don’t fall; they fly. They take their time and wander on this, their only chance to soar. Reflecting sunlight, they swirled and sailed and fluttered on the wind drafts.

The science and art entwined in each other’s strengths: the colors, the light, the species, the life; weaving a masterpiece of knowledge and beauty that filled every corner of her shack. Her world. She grew with them—the trunk of the vine—alone, but holding all the wonders together.