They had to seize something in the face of the camera.
The woman’s hand touches her throat as if feeling
for a necklace that isn’t there. The man buries one hand
in his overall pocket, loops the other through a strap,
and the child twirls a strand of hair as she hunkers
in the dirt at their feet. Maybe Evans asked them to stand
in that little group in the doorway, a perfect triangle
of people in the morning sun. Perhaps he asked them
to hold their arms that way. Or bend their heads. It was
his composition after all. And they did what he said.
:: Maggie Anderson
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