A brother and sister release from a school bus,
light as puzzle pieces, or light that is everywhere at once.

Their backpacks, so free of weight as if wings
could lift them, they leap-run.

They’re so young. They haven’t learned
to hold the moments like this one.

And they’ll not remember it—not the smoked air
or the way the road feels twice as wide,

not the yellow moth that is
not a leaf, and especially not

the woman remembering her own brother
– as the boy running now

beside her car, smiles, and waves, waves
and smiles, so happy to be seen so happy.