The gulls knew before we did. They skimmed low over the Galveston channel, wheeling once, then gone. The wind, brackish and sharp, licked the pier with a tongue of salt and iron. The air tasted like pennies. First drop: a sting. Then another. Then a slap of rain that sent bait buckets skittering. Thunder folded the sky. Mom's voice-steady all summer-came clipped now: Inside. Now. We hauled the boards we'd sanded and labeled, slid them against the windows until the house's dark eyes blinked shut. The shutters clacked. The lights hiccuped, steadied, hiccuped again. The street turned to a mirror, the oaks hunched like old men. A siren wound up somewhere in the gray. Names of storms stitched themselves through my head, the way a seam runs through a sail. I counted, like we'd practiced. One-Mississippi. Two- The boom landed on top of us. The dog pressed under my knee. In the closet, the radio's rasp crawled through the static, naming neighborhoods we knew. The house breathed around us, ribs creaking, as if it were bracing, same as we were.

Which statement best explains how the author's language choices shape the mood of this passage?

Morning unspooled itself softly along the river, a pale ribbon slipped through reeds and willow fronds. Mist lifted in loose curls, and the water, unhurried, shouldered past stones with a patient murmur, as if repeating a story it had told for centuries. I walked the path that bent and bent again, the gravel a quiet hush beneath my shoes, and every breath felt woven from cool moss and a sweetness I could not name. A heron unlatched itself from the far bank, wings broad and deliberate, lifting the air rather than beating it. Even the sun seemed to practice restraint, laying thin gold across the surface, then more, then more, until the entire bend glowed like a held note. Time folded wider. Thoughts thinned. The day, unthreatened, opened its hands. I watched a leaf turn on the current - turn, glint, and drift - until the eye of it passed me, then the idea of it passed me, and what remained was only the lilt of water, the mild, murmuring pull forward, and the feeling that nothing whatsoever was in a hurry, least of all me.

How do the author's sentence structure and word choices contribute to the overall mood of the passage?

I was supposed to bring brownies to the fundraiser. Simple, right? Mix, pour, bake-boom, hero status. Except my batter looked like wet potting soil and smelled faintly of gym socks. I reread the directions (which, in my defense, were printed in microscopic hieroglyphs), and realized I had used salt like it was confetti. When the pan emerged, the top had developed a geological crust, the kind you see on planets where nothing survives. I tapped it; it blinked back at me, unimpressed. My brother suggested we call them "artisan," which is sibling for "no one will eat these on purpose." I considered frosting to camouflage the situation, but the frosting slid off like a toddler on a playground slide and pooled on the counter. The clock galloped. The bake sale loomed. I cut a square. It crunched like gravel, then announced its presence with a salty aftershock. I packed them anyway, because optimism is free and foil is opaque. At the table, people smiled kindly, chose other things, and I learned a valuable lesson: always read the directions, and maybe bring napkins.

Which option best explains how the author's language choices create the voice of the passage?

By August, the Llano ran thin over its limestone bed, and wind lifted dust from fields that had yielded generously just a few seasons ago. Across our county, stock tanks sank to cracked rims, and water-restriction notices arrived not as alarms but as acknowledgments of reality. In this drought, sentiment will not refill a single well. What will help is stewardship: conserving what we have, repairing what leaks, and investing, together, in infrastructure that can endure longer dry cycles. We have choices. We can measure our lawns by their thrift instead of their color. We can fix the small drips that become lost gallons. We can schedule irrigation to match the morning's cool and the soil's needs. None of this is dramatic. All of it is effective. Rural and urban, household and business, neighbor and official - each bears a portion of the work. A community is not only what it celebrates; it is what it sustains. If we practice restraint now, the river will run deeper then, and the lessons we learn in scarcity will make us wiser stewards when the rains, as they always do eventually in Texas, return.

Which statement best explains how the author's language choices establish the tone of this passage?

Night came down like a dropped curtain over the Hill Country. The windmill creaked. Once. Twice. Then the sky cracked open. Lightning stitched a white seam over the pasture, and everything leaped into view—the cedar fence, the water trough, the long road running toward Mason and farther. The cattle bunched at the gate, heads low. I held my breath. The air smelled like pennies and dust. Thunder rolled again, closer, folding the dark into tighter squares. The screen door rattled. I counted. One. Two. Three. The wind hit the house hard enough to make the nails remember their work. Rain arrived in clean, slanting lines. Quick. Hard. Mean. It bit at the porch rail and worried the live oak like a dog. Our generator hiccupped, went silent, tried again. The silence after was a held note that wouldn't resolve. Somewhere beyond the pasture, a coyote barked—short, sharp, gone. I thought of the road, how it disappeared between mesquite shadows, how it could carry anything toward us—flash flood, broken branch, stranger—carried fast by the storm we couldn't see past.

Which choice best explains how the author's language creates the passage's overall mood?

Morning unspooled quietly along the creek, the day taking its time as mist lifted from the water in slow ribbons and sycamore leaves turned their pale undersides toward a sun not yet eager to appear. Pebbles clicked sometimes, gently, as the current rearranged them; even that small sound seemed to whisper back to the banks. A blue heron stepped with the care of someone carrying a full saucer, pausing, considering, then settling its feet where the shallows folded. Far off, a train gave a low, unhurried sigh that came and went like a thought you meant to keep. I walked the path where dew threaded the grass, and the web a spider had quilted between two stems held a hundred small mornings at once. Breath in, breath out, the day suggested, and the creek obliged, repeating itself without hurrying. By the time the first light found the bend, the world felt rinsed clean of argument, the kind of clean that asks nothing back. I kept listening for louder news and heard, instead, water and leaves deciding together to keep speaking softly.

Which statement best explains how the author's language contributes to the passage's mood?

Jet the class turtle made his break for it during science, which is to say he pivoted north at a blistering centimeter per century. The room exploded—okay, more like politely hiccupped—as he beelined (turtle-lined?) for the glossy freedom of the hallway. I narrated like a sports announcer because somebody had to: He makes his move. He pauses. He considers a life of crime. Behind us, Ms. Alvarez pinched the bridge of her nose and said nothing, which is teacher for everything. Desk legs scraped. Backpacks moaned. Jet lifted one prehistoric foot and set it down with the drama of a moon landing. He did this again. And again. We cheered anyway, because you have to respect commitment. When he reached the door frame, he blinked like a celebrity at a camera flash, then turned at a forty-five-degree angle that suggested plans. Sam offered a lettuce bribe. I offered a motivational speech. Jet accepted neither, because heroes walk alone. Eventually, Ms. A scooped him up, the crowd booed cheerfully, and order returned at the speed of, well, a turtle.

How do the author's language choices shape the passage's voice?

Across much of central Texas, another dry year has not arrived as a surprise; it has arrived as a confirmation. Reservoirs trace their shrinking shorelines in pale rings, and springs that once ran in all seasons now pause for months. In communities along the Llano and the Guadalupe, councils consider Stage Two restrictions not as a gesture but as a necessity: shorter watering windows, fewer refills, stricter enforcement. The language of policy may seem bloodless, yet it matters, because precision keeps arguments honest. When we say aquifer recharge is slow, we name a rate; when we say conservation is voluntary, we name a choice that can be withdrawn. The distinction is not cosmetic. It shapes budgets, schedules, and, ultimately, habits. In a place that prides itself on long horizons and open gates, restraint can feel unfamiliar. Still, measured sentences and measurable goals protect more than lawns; they protect wells, creeks, and the promise of next summer's shade. To treat drought as a temporary inconvenience is to misread the pattern. To plan carefully—publicly, explicitly—is to act like neighbors who expect to share the same ground for a long time.

Which choice best explains how the author's language establishes the passage's tone?