The Sunday School Teacher
A great blue heron swept in, surprising me
just at sunset, landing up the beach
and standing, almost invisible
in slanting light.
Leaning over a driftwood log, the heron looked
like my father in his blue Sunday suit,
standing at his lectern forty years ago,
where he read to his class
from one of Paul’s letters and shared a story
from his own life to illustrate.
I thought of Paul, blinded
on the road to Damascus, and my father,
blinded in his way, too, by God.
Then, the stroke
at the end of his life, just as unexpected.
The heron had no verses for me,
but unfolded his wings and lifted
into the air, flying away
then turning back and sweeping low
over the water once more,
as if to make sure I understood.