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A crow caws somewhere nearby, a blue-jay hunts and pecks in the wet grass; the sound of the light rain taps gently on umbrellas. Children run and hushed voices are present but inaudible. This place seems so filled with life, yet so close to death. The simple white headstones stretch at times as far as the eye can see; through the trees, over the hills, around corners, these stones mark at once the liberty I so casually cherish and the people who died in order to provide it.
