Someone has to go first, to risk the hazards,
to scout the terrain and send back reports.
Volunteer or elected, however it came to be,
here they find themselves, both responsibility
and privilege resting on their shoulders.
This year, as in all the years I’ve watched,
the same clan has sent them.
These are the ones who step forth.
Upright and tall they arrive, wearing
the colors of a king. And rightly so.
I salute them, my toes curling in glee
as I drink in their thirst-quenching photons.
They are here, I whisper to the sky.
They are here. They are here.
The sun warms my back. It knows.