Sun Salutations at ZANABIA

In ZANABIA, the Sun is not a thing in the sky.
It is a presence.
A witness.
A patient elder who has watched the city grow fur, hooves, wings, whiskers, ambitions, mistakes, and quiet acts of kindness.

Once every year—on the gentlest morning of the season—every Zanabian gathers at the great stadium outside town, an open circular ground where no roof dares interrupt the first ray. There are no tickets. No announcements. No chief guest. The Sun does not need introductions.

As dawn stretches its golden fingers over ZANABIA, the stadium fills—not with noise—but with intent.

The Woolybays: Gratitude in Stillness

The Woolybays arrive early. They always do.
Papa Woolybay adjusts his shawl twice, not because it is crooked, but because rituals deserve care. Mama Woolybay carries nothing—gratitude, she believes, travels best when the hands are free.

They do not perform complex movements. They stand still, heads slightly bowed, eyes half-closed, letting the Sun warm their wool slowly. Their salute is quiet acknowledgment.

“Thank you for another season,” their posture says.
“For warmth, for patience, for helping grass grow where we did not expect it.”

The Woolybay children squint at the sky, smiling—not praying, not demanding—just receiving.

The Gruffs: Motion and Muscle

Where the Woolybays are still, the Gruffs are kinetic.

They stretch.
They leap.
They stomp the ground in rhythmic sequences passed down through generations. Their salute is movement, because Gruffs believe the Sun appreciates effort.

Sweat glistens. Dust rises. Hooves strike earth in confident beats.

“See us,” their bodies declare.
“We are alive because of you—and we choose to move because you rise.”

The Sun, amused and indulgent, shines a little brighter.

Blenchy: The Unrepeatable Ritual

No one knows what Blenchy will do. Not even Blenchy.

This year, he arrives late, slightly sideways, carrying a thermos of something warm and unnecessary. He faces the Sun, then turns around, then faces it again. He salutes with one paw, then both, then none.

He hums.
He bows too deep.
He waves.

Some say Blenchy’s salute looks unserious. But the elders know better.

Blenchy salutes the Sun as a friend, not a force. His gratitude is casual, personal, unpolished—and somehow, deeply sincere.

The Sun, if it could laugh, would.

The Ants: Reverence Below

While the stadium fills above, the Ants gather below.

Deep underground, in vast glowing chambers warmed faintly by the Sun’s stored memory, they pause their endless work. No marching. No carrying. Just stillness.

They face upward—not with eyes, but with awareness.

Their salute is trust.
Trust that the Sun will rise again.
Trust that light reaches even those who never see it directly.

For the Ants, the Sun is not brightness. It is reliability.

Mr Bigness: Precision and Pride

Mr Bigness arrives exactly on time. Not early. Not late.

His salute is structured. Wings slightly spread. Head inclined at a precise angle. A brief pause—exactly long enough to show respect, never long enough to appear inefficient.

He thanks the Sun for order. For cycles. For predictable mornings that allow systems to function and promises to be kept.

Even the Sun respects punctuality.

The Deerheads and Tigerhead: Balance

From the golf course come the Deerheads and the Tigerhead—together, as they always are.

The Deerheads bow gracefully, acknowledging the Sun as a nurturer.
The Tigerhead stands tall, chest forward, honoring the Sun as a source of strength.

Predator and peace.
Alertness and calm.

Their shared salute is balance—a reminder that ZANABIA survives because opposites stand side by side without fear.

The Moment

As the Sun fully rises, there is no applause. No cheer.

Just silence.

A silence filled with fur warming, wings folding, soil breathing, hearts steadying.

In that moment, every Zanabian—above ground and below—knows the same truth:

The Sun does not belong to ZANABIA.
ZANABIA belongs to the Sun.

And so they salute—not to ask for more, but to say:

We noticed you.
We are grateful.
We will live well today.

And that, in ZANABIA, is the highest form of praise.