From a distance, I see my son
on the quad with his friends.
Five or six teenaged boys
move in an amoeba-like cluster,
molecules of gas in a glass chamber.
They bump against one another
and the invisible wall
that confines them.
In the group, my son stands out –
my eyes are still adjusting
to his new long form
but he is familiar, nonetheless.
He is laughing, with his head back
as he runs and pivots.
Now he has a red bouncy ball in his hands
which he launches,
setting off a chain reaction of kinetic energy.
The molecules dance and spread
then mysteriously come back together
in a seemingly choreographed
I walk across the tree-lined quad
to my car, purse pinched between
arm and ribcage,
unseen by my son,
to the vibrant, necessary
motions of adolescence.