Where The Crawdads Sing
Vocal Characteristics
Language
EnglishVoice Age
Young Adult (18-35)Accents
North American (General) North American (US South)Transcript
Note: Transcripts are generated using speech recognition software and may contain errors.
Where the Crawdad Saying by Delia, owns Rid by Kathleen Friends. One mall, 1952 Kaya was the youngest of five, the others much older. The later she couldn't recall their ages. They lived with Malan, Paul squeezed together like penned rabbits in the rough cut shack. It's screened porch, staring big eyed from under the oaks. Jodi, the brother closest to Kaya but still seven years older, stepped from the house and stood behind her. He had her same dark eyes and black hair and taught her bird songs star names, how to steer the boat through saw grass. Ma will be back, he said. I don't know. She's wearing her gate or shoes. Um, I don't leave her kids. It ain't in him. You told me that Fox left her babies. Yeah, but that vixen got her leg all tore up. She, too, starved to death. If she tried to feed herself and her kids, she was better off to leave him. He'll herself up, then Welp more when she could raise them. Good. Mind starving, she'll be back. Jodi wasn't nearly assures. He sounded but said it for Kaaya. Her throat tight, she whispered. But Moss carrying that blue case like she's going somewhere is big. The shack sat back from the palmettos, which sprawled across sand flats, toe a necklace of green lagoons and, in the distance, all the marsh beyond miles of blade crafts. So tough it grew in salt water, interrupted only by trees. So band, they wore the shape off the wind. Oak forests bunched around the other sides of the shack and sheltered the closest lagoon, its surface so rich in life. It turned salt air and goal song drifted through the trees from the sea. Ma didn't come back that day. No one spoke of it, least of all paw stinking a fish and drum liquor. He clanked pot lids, war supper, eyes down, cast. The brothers and sisters shrugged. Pog dog cussed, then limp, stepped out back into the woods. There have been fights before. Ma had even left a time or two, but she always came back, scooping up whoever would be cuddled. Kaya couldn't meet. She sat on the porch steps, looking down the lane. Darkness put a stop to her look out croak and frogs would drown the sounds of footsteps. Even so, she lay on her porch bed listening. The next morning, Kaya took up her post again on the steps, her dark eyes born down the lane like a tunnel waitin for a train. The marsh beyond was veiled in fog so low it's cushy bottom set right on the mud. Barefoot Kaya drummed her toes, twirled grass stems, it doodle bugs. But a six year old cannot sit long, and soon she moseyed onto the title flats, sucking sounds pulling at her toes. Squatting at the edge of the Clearwater, she watched minnows dart between sunspots and shadows.