She is small on purpose. The marsh was here before the gown.
Full figure at the water. Cyan, not gray. This is the face the rest of the sitting has to match.
One hand on the stone. She is listening to the river, not to the camera.
Wet planks. Skirt in one hand. The reeds close behind her.
Silk, skin, a hand at the waist. The neckline goes as far as the light allows.
She looks back once. The wind takes the hair and leaves the question.
Stone steps, hands folded, boots still wet. Rest, not a pose.
Some frames she never knows are being made.
Straight at the lens. The marsh goes soft so the eyes can stay cyan.
Cyan, not blue. The only cold color she brought with her.
The boathouse door opens onto nothing but water.
She is not sketching the river. She is deciding where the fog should stop.
One hand in the river. The ripple is the only thing moving.
Shoulder to the stone. Skirt gathered. The wall is colder than the fog.
Three-quarter, almost a smile, not quite. The eyes run a shade greener here.
The figure is an excuse for the fog. Inness would have left her even smaller.
Profile. Copper down the back. One cyan eye, and the river behind it.
Hero. Dock, boathouse, open gown, same woman. This is the frame the shoot is named for.
Face and neckline. Close enough to read the freckles. Far enough to keep the marsh in the color.
She turns on the path. The boathouse is still there. The sitting is not.