Sitting in a restaurant next to Shopko, I watch a lost french fry on the floor. Halfway in between two chairs, it lies so still. Nearby, a man in sleeveless t-shirt reads the paper, fly stuck on shoulder. He moves his arm, again, the fly remains. It won't be moved. Others unwrap burgers, sip, discuss the weather. Cars outside line up. The kitchen's filled with beepers, cold beef on a hot grill, the clink of coins in a cash drawer. I sit at a table, quietly communing with the lost potato and a fly. For just a moment, we three share an island of silence in a rushed, chaotic world.

I found a dead cat in the hay. The head, hidden, seemed smaller than it should. Stiff limbs stuck out. Afraid to touch, I prodded with a pitchfork, considered if the insides were exposed. I didn't look. Instead, my aunt took shovel, scraped the corpse away. Two horses, swishing tails, nickered from the shade below. A diesel rumbled past. In the distance, echoes of a dog and children laughing.

Two penguins wave goodbye. One white-capped bird stands next to sign that says, "I went to the emergency room today!" Is this a happy place? The yellow sticker shows no blood or broken arms; there are no bandages. Instead, both birds smile. I remember the time, waiting in a gray gloom, wondering when. There were no penguins.

Some screeching bug protests the falling rain while crickets, in the background, softly chant their standard song of up and down, across and back, a nearly spiritual litany of summer. Soon, it will pass, but they'll return next spring to sing the coming of their season.

Metal-minted butterfly, flight-frozen, stuck in time, just above the mantel, vulnerable against stark white walls. Its copper coat reflects the light of a bare bulb. Will it ever fly again? Will it dance in the breeze, suckle from center of slender flower, find shelter in secret mountain forest? How silly these thoughts seem, thinking about an aluminum bug, made in China, cheap decoration.

Sorting through boxes in the barn, I find old family photos, a stack of burlap bags, canning jars, carefully wrapped in roses and ferns, sprinkled with dusty straw. A swallow swoops through an open window, disappears in the darkened rafters. Computer carcass supports a tired broom, black handle resting on wires. Baskets and a banana box are neighbors to a lonely, red boot. It is so quiet here.

Beef dinner franks is printed on the side of an open box. Proclaims them, "Sinai Kosher." And yet the franks are gone. Were they ever here? I can't remember. This box must have held a hundred, but I've eaten four or five, no more. The sign's an empty symbol. Pointing to the truth of wholesome hot dogs, it has nothing to offer the earnest seeker. Symbols without substance lose their meaning, waste our time, add clutter where simplicity is better suited.

A black wood stove sits dormant in the heat, but winter comes. Bags of newsprint, stuffed till stiff; new matches in a box. Lilac sticks and apple branches stacked in storage, wait. And then, we'll have a fire. Flame-warmed rooms require less light.

When life's too fast, I like to circle parking lots, leaving invisible loops, oblongs, figure eights in the asphalt. Today, I tried a tram, told the attendant I didn't know where I'd parked, just wanted to ride, move without moving, waste time. This flustered her sense of propriety, my lack of direction. She pointed out lightpost placards to help me find my way. What if I'm not looking? What if I don't need to know what's next?

Internet chess is not so difficult. Diagonally-ordered squares of black on white, paired pieces, angry queen. Lonely, impotent king shuffled to the side, dances with a rook, forgotten. Others claim the center, bite and break. No kills. We call them captured (waiting for another game). Careful choreography, no steps too soon. Until the end when rook and king renew acquaintance, tango to the corner, shyly serenade their silent friend. Let's play again.

My sister comes for the phone, looks around, waiting. "It's on the trunk." She sifts magazines, moves a box, steps over silk ties. Did she hear? Does she know I am speaking? What does she really want? I stay at the computer, sitting, sinking into squeaky-springed leather. She leaves.

Silk ties slip to the floor in the doorway. Golden curlicues and blue-hued boxes slide down sun-browned statues, stop short of silver hooks and a stone. When will I wear them? Jerry Garcia is dead. It was Wednesday the 9th. I'll leave the patterned pile, gently stepping over, around. No need to open old wounds. Let them rest.

A farmer scatters seed in a field. Half-hearted hands cast from a bag on his hip. Eyes, far away, see a boat skimming the waves under summer sun, full sail, fresh rush of air. Heels crush crumbling clods, bringing him back to the earth where he lives. It is good, this touch of sod and seed, the gift of growing things. It is life and love, this piece of land next to the sea where the wind blows.

The freezer hums a solitary monotone. Joy? I could not say. It is the same; no change from yesterday. Contentment? Yes, for satisfaction's found in function. A flower blooms, bears fruit. It dies. There is no sadness there, only hope for the next season of blossoms and thanksgiving for the fruit.

Rototiller rumbles other side of neighbor's fence, relentless. Sun beats down on my own garden, killing the cauliflower, withering bush beans. Zucchinni tangle with strawberry starts for a piece of dirty shade. Tomatoes burst in the heat. Peppers and petunias tumble and toss their flowers over the edge of railroad ties, teasing, taunting. They love the dry dog days of summer.

An open plastic pouch of chow mein noodles leans against stacked envelopes. Yellow bungee, dead, its white, plastic hooks no longer connect. Stenciled maple leaves climb the sides of a tissue box. Sitting in the midst, I'm hungry. Licking stamps, I taste the chemically sweetened adhesive. This is not food. It fails to nourish. There is no substance here.

Matador stands in the thick, green air, gold brocade on shoulder, weighted cape at waist. The crowd, watched and watching, invisibly silent. No bull. What comes? Why do we wait? What do we want? There is beauty in fear, something natural and free in unrehearsed terror. Choked gasps seem wondrously surreal in a world too full of stilted speech, contrived diversions, illusion.

Map of the city posted on my wall: triangle town. Central grid slides into scrambled jam of curves and corners. Straight streets in center point to outer edge where meandering lanes stumble, switch direction, stop. The old are rigid in their ways. Every connection measured, regular, predictable. Avenues count off in each direction. A place for everything, and everything in its place. Why change what works? Meanwhile, newer neighborhoods swagger and swirl. Flirting with danger, they never touch. Have they discovered truth or lost their way?

An orange, paper star hangs from a hook in the ceiling, concrete behind, computer beneath. Two bowling trophies, women on top, slide between curtain's scalloped edge and dirt speckled window. A hand holding hot dogs. Fat boy in a wading pool. Pigeon food for sale. Two towers rise into the Russian sky, covered with a "C". What does it mean? I sit here wondering, pondering pictures, words, fake wood panels with six repeating patterns. I hope it is good.