First forage in the forest

A snatch of hair on a tree branch, and I know she was here. In my mind's eye, I see her wandering, solo, through the pine needles and leaves that rustle under foot. She is smiling and hopeful.

Or I see her running. Screaming aimlessly. I see the needles scratch at her skin and a bead of crimson streak backwards towards her hairline; the air pushing it there as easily as she is frantic. 

A square of white cotton, torn from her dress, lies tellingly and terribly by the creek. I see her in my head somewhere, laying, dazing by the water, as the flies dance in the heavy midday air. Half-awake, she traces her fingers through the cool water and, as she turns, dozing in the shade, a patch of fabric falls away.

But then, I see her again. Differently. She is caught, and bound, weighed down, over-run, over-powered by another sent to forage, for someone just like her. She is dragged from the earth and tossed into the creek. She leaves a square of white cotton. A surrender.

I walk further, and I am met with a hopeful trail of purple; violet berries she couldn't carry on her first forage in the forest. But were they left as they were surplus? Or dropped as she fled?

I walk further. Against a tree rests her basket. 

I walk further. I forage, for someone just like her.