Some years, it's the prophet crying in the wilderness about pathways made straight, the need to repent.
Some years, we tire of that locust-tinted breath always beating down on us. Some years, the angels come too close.
Some years we scan the skies, looking for the unusual, a far-away star to tell us something new.
Maybe we just need a walk with a friend to do what the prophet and angels cannot do, to get us back on track and restore our sense of wonder.