The morning burned so August-hot, t

早晨如此炎热，八月炎热，沼泽湿润的气息笼罩着雾气的橡树和松树。除了从泻湖上抬起的苍鹭翅膀低而缓慢的襟翼外，这些小矮人的脚掌异常安静。然后，当时只有六岁的Kya听到了纱门的拍打声。她站在凳子上，停止擦洗锅中的沙粒，然后<br>将其放到破旧的肥皂池中。现在没有声音了，但是她自己的呼吸。谁离开了棚屋？不是妈 她从不让门关上。

早晨燃烧得如此八月热，沼泽潮湿的气息笼罩着橡树和松树的雾。除了从泻湖中抬起的龙翅膀的低慢的皮瓣外，棕榈斑显得异常安静。然后，Kya，当时只有六个人，听到屏幕门的耳光。站在凳子上，她停止擦洗砂砾从锅和<br>降低它到破旧的苏德盆。现在没有声音， 但她自己的呼吸。谁离开了小屋？不是马她从来不让门砰的一声。

The morning burned so August-hot, the marsh’s moist breath hung the oaks and pines with fog. The palmetto patches stood unusually quiet except for the low, slow flap of the heron’s wings lifting from the lagoon. And then, Kya, only six at the time, heard the screen door slap. Standing on the stool, she stopped scrubbing grits from the pot andlowered it into the basin of worn-out suds. No sounds now but her own breathing. Who had left the shack? Not Ma. She never let the door slam.<br>