Wings

“What are you doing?” asks his brother.  They’re on the roof, a sprinkling of stars hanging above them, so close they could touch them.

“I’m growing my wings.”

“What?”

“I can feel ’em coming in.  It’s only a matter of time.  And then I’m gone.  I got places to be.”

“Like where.”

“I dunno.  South.  There are people I miss.”

A brief silence.  “Alright.”  His brother half-climbs in through the window, then swings back.  “What happens if they don’t come in?”

“What d’you mean?”

“Your wings.  What happens if you’re wrong?”

He looks down briefly.  “Then at least I waited.”

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