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the body catches up with the heart Morning finds him on the same ridge, and the ridge finds him heavier. Scales have argued their way through the gold of his coat. A wing opens like a mistake that decided to be beautiful. He looks at it the way a dog looks at a new stick: delighted, unqualified, already wagging. The wag is the proof. Plenty of things grow wings and become cruel. John grew wings and became airborne about tennis. He banks, he circles, he still wants you to throw it. Fire lives in his throat now and he has not decided what it is for. That decision is a later coin. This one is only the shock of flight, and the tail that never got the memo.