The path grew dark, the bright sun hidden from view by the thick overhang from the trees along the path, which had been trodden upon by the bovine and equine residents of the nearby farm. Only the scant light between the leaves, and the light at either end of the woods provided any natural illumination.
The intermittent flashes from photographers provided the rest.
Her movements were delicate, contrived, deliberate. She paused with each motion, making sure each of us had an opportunity to capture her. She would flit her light skirts, which seemed to hang, seemed to take their time in their eventual, inescapable influence to gravity.
A story was being told in her movements, would never be put into words, would never be written on paper. All you had to do was look, and the tale was revealed. To you, alone.
It's a private story, yours to interpret. Don't speak it: just look, and you will understand.