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.