Never Again Would Bird's Song Be the Same

He would declare and could himself believe

That the birds there in all the garden round

From having heard the daylong voice of Eve

Had added to their own an oversound,

Her tone of meaning but without the words.

Admittedly an eloquence so soft

Could only have had an influence on birds

When call or laughter carried it aloft.

Be that as may be, she was in their song.

Moreover her voice upon their voices crossed

Had now persisted in the woods so long

That probably it never would be lost.

Never again would birds' song be the same.

And to do that to birds was why she came.

--Robert Frost

I sat up high up in a tree, watching the sunrise over the hills of green. It was beautiful- not the uniform lines of trees, picked, plucked, climbed and slaved over day after day by everyone in her town- but the off limit woods which turned a glowing yellow, mirroring the rays of sun, lifting into the sky presenting the new day. A day full of grief and worry. Today, two people would be chosen out of thousands to, summed up, die.

A glass ball, that swirls with names- of which exactly 9 have Rue carefully written on them- holds the sad destiny of two children. So, here I waited, unable to sleep, safe. A feeling that only grew farther from me as the sun came closer. I felt safe knowing I could never be caught by peacemakers because I could jump from tree to tree, higher than they'd ever been in their lives.

I looked to my right to see two blue eyes fluttering open. Hope. I had nursed her from birth when her mother died by the peacemakers hands, trying to feed her family. It used to be illegal to kill a mockingbird, but a mockingjay can be killed as easily as a man can be spanked publicly for trying to feed his family. I take an apple from the tree I sat in, chewed it up and put a bit in the palm of my hand for Hope to eat.

What would she do without me? What would anyone? My family would need someone to climb high enough in the trees and retrieve food, but I guess Lilac could do that. And the town could find another person to tell them when work was done. Hope was old enough too, and I have the feeling that she would fly off if nor for me. I was holding her back, so maybe it would be better for her if I left.

The sun was well up in the sky by now, and I got up, pet Hope's head, and whistled our little goodbye tune. She repeated it back, but then added on the song I used to say "Time to go home" to the hardworking pickers. "Yes, Hope", I said, kissing the circular scar left on her stomach, and smiling, " It is time to go home". Maybe she needed me more than I thought. Or maybe the little song was to say something else. Something that was creeping up on me.

Fate.

People gathered in the town square, the floors made of brick were the only floors in the town not plain dirt. Every time I set a foot on the bricks though, a shiver went down my spine, thoughts of death ran through my head. An empty spot in my heart ached, something I'd never been able to talk about aloud.

Exactly three years ago, yesterday, I was walking home, with my best friend. My older sister. Rill. She carried my food for me. I held her hand. She picked a flower for me, and I put it in my hair.

Rill sang, as I had stolen apples and a squirrel rill had shot for me in my bag, and she knew that music calmed me down. She too loved music. Her ancestors had written down songs of the past before North America became Panem, so, on rare occasions, when the wind howled against my window or when I went to sleep with my stomach growling, she would come, from her house next door to sing me a song from the book.

Rill. My sister, my singer.

Rill Frost. My savior.

I tensed up when I saw a guard setting up for the reaping. Rill sang, in her beautiful, clear voice a song that was about how everything was going to be fine. That I would be fine. That's when the guard heard us. He turned around. The sun was set, and most people were home. He seemed younger, he seemed bitter that he had to finish decorating by himself. He seemed intensely aware of his gun.

"You two!" he called. Rill pretended she hadn't heard him, and sang louder, and the mockingjays started to sing along. More of them joined in as the man's cries became louder, harsher. Rill smiled at me, trying to soothe away the pained expression off my face. I clutched her hand like a lifeline, because the man had grabbed the end of my shirt and was pulling my backwards, yelling.

"Is there a problem?", Rill interviened, as if I weren't in immediate danger. As if there was no man grabbing my shirt and screaming. As if she wasn't scared,

The man dropped my shirt, stunned, but resumed his original manner. 'What's in the bag", he said.

"apples", replied Rill.

"Oh really?", he said, rabbing my bags. Apples tumbled over, but so did the squirrel.

"Run, Rue" Rill whispered into my ear. And though I knew not what to do, I ran. Behind me, I heard yelling, I heard painful noises, but mostly I heard Rill's song, overlapping too much, making it sound like chaos, destruction. Screaming. I wanted to yell at them, it was like they were following me. So I turned around, about to yell, when in the distance, I saw the man rais his gun, and shoot. I ran, and so did the man.

When I reached Rill, she was gone. She sat, more beautiful and innocent as ever, surrounded in a pool of blood. I grabbed the apples, the squirrel and the book of songs. Not wanting to leave Rill there, to be found later, so vulnerable, I took the flower from my hair and put it over the hole made by the gun. The flower lay, beautiful as Rill, right over her heart.

Rill has haunted me ever since.