Death Of a Bird

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Death of a Bird I saw him coming a couple miles down the road. As his '65 Dodge station wagon neared my house, a look of excitement could be seen on my face. Uncle Hector had arrived. After having a short talk with my mom, he told me it was time to go, for it was getting dark. The city of Rosario was now lit and looked elegant as always. Its majestic architecture could be appreciated even more at night; it's as if every structure was designed for when the Sun no longer shined upon the Argentine sky. It wasn't my first time leaving my beloved hometown, but this weekend was about to be like no other. I was on my way to the countryside, a place I had never seen before. I imagined seeing Gauchos, the famous Argentinean Cowboys, or maybe I would get to see a place like the Pampas, the grasslands where deers and jaguars roam freely. The excitement made me sleepy. It was only a matter of time until we got to our destination. About 20 miles past the small city of Oliveros, the place where my mother grew up, there was a little nameless "town" consisting of a house, a farm, a grocery store about 3 miles away from the house, and acres of land. The fields seemed infinite. This wasn't the Pampas, there were no Gauchos, no deers, and no jaguars, and although the fields were filled with different types of vegetation from tomatoes to Argentina's biggest export, soy, I didn’t encounter what I was expecting. But I wasn’t going to let anything prevent me from having the greatest time in this strange land, miles away from home. After I greeted these distant relatives of mine that lived in the house, I went inside to inspect, and to get a drink of water, for it was a hot summer day. I couldn't find a refrigerator, and I wasn’t entirely sure these people even knew what it was. A lady gave me a glass and taught me how to use a pump they had outside the house. The water was

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