Pilgrimage of the Black Shepherd – Jack Barry

The dew had settled on the grass. Fog, dense, is the pressed cheek of the sky flush against the earth. The heavy water in the air fills the lungs. There are shapes in the mist, the great swelling figures cast shadows as they are born from the water, traverse the dewdrop grass, and dissolve again into the primordial mass. Lying still for a long time, lakes form on the skin, a film that thins and deepens over the rolling dips and hills of the body. The water presses down heavy, it becomes harder to lift yourself.

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