Cycles and Patterns

Too Li the little Doxie Dog is snugly tucked into a curl on her blanket, on her end of the couch. One of my sweaters covers her. She likes to burrow and uses her nose to lift the edge of the sweater, slinking into her impromptu den. From there she hears birds and the morning trucks, while I drink coffee and write. She barks at the noises, though she knows I don't like her to bark too much or too loud. She tries to keep it down, but it is hard for her to suppress her dogishness.
The birds are loud through my open door. It rained last night and the air is cool, even a bit chilly and smells fresh, with a bit of sting in the nose. The warm sleep-air of night is trickling out and the visitor morning air dances through my door.
In the distance I hear the garbage truck with it's beeping back-up alarm and rumbling engine. It crashes and bumps about, stuffing it's belly with a weeks worth of town discards. Tennis shoes and plastic bags, five day old pizza crusts and the regurgitated dregs from the vacuum cleaner. It is a machine and eats anything.
I pour another cup of coffee. A spoonful of sugar and a snake-like curl of heavy cream, that sinks to oblivion at the bottom of the cup and rises as billowing thunder clouds to the surface. The coffee is hot and sweet and smooth. It smells of earth that clothes tropical hills far to the south. Of long days baking under a close sun and humid nights serenaded by the buzzing of hundreds of species of night-flying insects.
The birds are banging away in song. They all seem to have babies and are shoving worms, caterpillars and flies into the stomachs of complaining endless appetites. Each chick tries hard to stretch a small beak as wide as the nest, target for food flying in and outdo the other one or two demanders.
I repeat the ritual of the filling of the coffee cup. I know that each coffee bean was picked by a Human; that each was thumbed and forefingered by someone that lives thousands of miles away. That, chances are, the hundred or so beans I used to make a full pot were touched by a dozen or more people, each bean a small packet of sunshine and earth with, maybe, a single carbon atom that came from my own lungs.
Everything is cycles and patterns. The clock forever races around the same track, twice a day. The earth zooms around the sun and the moon around the earth. The seasons fold into each other, just as stars are born from the dust of long-lost super novae. Mountains rise and melt into plains. Trees spring up like mushrooms and crash to the earth, returning as if to bed. The Universe too, goes to sleep and wakes with a bang, endlessly and endlessly, forever.