One more leap:
Day time.
The little girl from District 11 flies from tree to tree, leaving nothing but a trail of worn-down bark and falling leaves behind her. Her footsteps do not leave fire or ashes in her wake, but a soft melody of feathers and, in a sick sense, she is enjoying herself.
This is freedom.
This is Rue.
...
One more trail:
Early morning.
Her movement is evasive. The footsteps of a hunter hold nothing to the quick-paced footsteps of a fruit-picker. The treetops her home, her shelter, her friend. The mockingbirds hold no sin to their name, just like herself. Yet they are cast into a icy-hell, known as the world.
She watches the fire burn from the distance.
She has made her mark.
...
One more tear:
Night-time.
Each star can be connected with a series of lines. She wonders; if she plucked every strand of dark hair off her head, could she weave a basket of stars and dreams? Would it be a wonder, would those from the Capitol bask in its beauty? Or would they be... sympathetic to her grief?
Another cry of death.
Another tear of innocence lost.
...
One more memory:
Evening.
She redoes the small, iconic plait at the front of her scalp. She thinks of her family, of her siblings and parents - the meals they had, the lessons she tried to teach. Of the fruit-pickers doing their day jobs, and of the animals eating their scraps of food, or fighting over living space.
There are dents in the tree.
There are birds flying away.
...
One more chance:
Day-break.
The odds are never in anyone's favour but those who create the problem. The blistering sun, the harshness of the winter twilight, the splinters from the bark, the crackling sticks on the damp, forest bed. Nature is never against man but it's a good enough excuse to blame it on. She smiles.
One more sawed branch with buzzing.
One more chance at living.
...
One more surprise:
Eve of night.
Generosity is a strange element in the table of emotions. You gain nothing if you give, but gain everything if you receive It is a one-way offer. And yet, the happiness in the bloody-trails of man is the best feeling in the world. A whistle of secrets, and a warm fire burning them up to the sky.
Sharing is warmth.
Sharing is sitting at a fire, being given something you never received with insistence.
...
One more song:
Fading. A word so full of ambiguity, that can have so many meanings laced into its core. The trees have a softness, a cherished symbol of hope within her district. The birds have done nothing to harm anyone, yet they are the target of silver arrows and greedy mouths.
Sing a song of hope.
Sing a lullaby of blackness.
Let them cheer for their nearest bets. Let them cheer for their selfish victories, for their lives adorned in money and brightly-coloured lies.
They do not know the meaning to 'live'. It takes a funeral of the girl who should have lived, for someone to take action and breakaway from the corrupt society of sin.
They are not a part of the game.
They are the survivors of a war.
"Shoot all the blue-jays you want. They do nothing but peck at the seeds we grow for others to live. But remember, it is a sin to kill a mockingbird. They only create music for us to enjoy, yet we always take advantage."