The Teacher

            He threw the thrashing burlap sack into the back of his dinged pickup truck, and with eyebrows in the V of migrating geese, gunned the engine. For eighty-eight miles, his eyes did not waver. The sun was just coming up over the big middle school building as he wove his way into the parking lot, swung himself out of the truck, and walked in his sandy boots to his classroom. The students were waiting. He walked straight to the wooden tank in the corner and poured eight mottled brown stingrays from the bag. Turning, he said, “Morning. Welcome to class.”