The sun at its best

So many mountains are climbed just because the sun shows its face. A man walks by and the sun follows its arc across the sky. Thats the sun at its best. I was wearing my green helmet as usual. The barista asked and I said my usual. A flat white with oat milk. I wonder if the man noticed the boulder on my back, my backpack, heavy. I saw his, clearly, a briefcase with what looked like a bowling ball, papers bulging out, hurried. I wondered if the world could be more simple than it is.  I had gotten my usual flat white, on the top was a foam heart. I bet it just takes practice. The barista smiles, as if she recognizes me. Why am I still wearing this helmet? My heart continues to beat, just like yesterday at this time, at its best. It bulges and compressions, blood flows, and my breath brings air into my lungs, and every thing goes where it needs to. On to where they are supposed to, on to where they would fall if they were a ball and you threw them as far as you could, or as many times as you could and no matter how hard you threw that ball or how many times it would always go where it should, because sometimes that just how things are and will be and always be. And many mountains are climbed, and many mountains aren't. Thats you at its best.