Pig × The Windrunner
It chases the gust too, laughs if it can't catch it, and never grabs against anyone.
The Windrunner chases the gust and moves on the swiftness of the Bow-and-Arrow stars, sweeping the sky in a Waxing Gibbous. The Pig in you chases too, then laughs if the gust gets away, and you never once grab a chance out of someone else's hand. So you are the easiest runner on the chart, quick when the moment is good, untroubled when it slips.
Most of this type tear themselves up over the opportunity that got past them. You seize the chance with a broad heart and grind nothing inward when one escapes. A door opens and you go through it glad; a door shuts and you shrug and wait for the next, no bitterness banked for later. People who have lived next to the frantic version find your speed strangely peaceful, fast without the clawing.
The fault line is the chance you read right and gave away anyway. Too content to contend, you hand over the opening you clearly saw because reaching for it felt like grabbing. The Gibbous moon sweeps wide but your hand stays open when it should close. When the chance is one you genuinely want and genuinely earned, the part of you that would rather not compete is the part to override before it walks out the door.
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A mirror, not a prophecy. It reflects you as you are right now. How you walk is still yours to choose.