She stands at the doorway, chin resting on her palm, the sun painting patterns of light on her lithe frame. The pose she strikes is one of her own choosing- she is aware of being observed, but doesn't react in anyway. She could be a photograph on a calendar, or a watercolour hanging on a living room wall; but she is neither, she is a living, breathing person. A mother, a wife, a daughter, a labourer. Her trials and her triumphs are etched on every line on her face.
I wonder what she makes of the camera trained on her?