Andrew Hamlin's "Haiku 19" is a string of tiny snapshots, each one a scene a watcher might notice on a walk or a train ride. An old woman naps in the sun. A woman with purple hair carries a guitar. A fly bumps against a screen. A pickup truck sits at the curb with its signal blinking and no driver. The speaker doesn't explain any of this. He just looks closely and lets odd details do the work, like the worn floor that seems to show faces and continents.
Underneath the city observation runs a quieter feeling. The speaker wonders if he's watching the terns for the last time, savors the cool night air, and says the wind reminds us of lost memory. The mood is gentle, curious, and a little wistful. Even the crows, one following the other for bread, feel like a small story about need and company. The poem seems to say that paying attention is a way of holding onto things.