First light,

he follows me into a forest

still damp with dew,

sipping his coffee from a Styrofoam cup

while I inhale the clear air’s

natural caffeine.

I’m doing my best

to shed his city scales

but he protests that the trail’s too rough,

the ravine we circumvent is too deep,

and the loudly cawing crows

don’t want us here anyhow.

But the complaints dry up

as the sun begins to warm us,

and a wildflower field emerges

from a cloister of trees.

A slow-moving stream

reminds him of a boyhood fishing.

And a small pond

has his memory, on bended knee,

collecting tadpoles in a jar.

Then we come to the lake,

and the world is just us,

a shimmering blue surface,

two wood ducks with chicks

and, on the far shore,

a stalking great blue heron.

That is the moment

Saul becomes Paul.

He stands beside me,

speechless and converted.

Only the now-empty Styrofoam cup is unconvinced.

It seems to look around

for somewhere to dump itself.