Andrew Hamlin's sequence is a string of quick snapshots, mostly of city life downtown: a car horn, a night bus, a stalled green truck, a crow eating fruit. Each haiku catches something small and lets it stand without much commentary. A few are funny or odd, like the cat riding a man's back with a dead possum on his head, while others turn quiet and sober, like the opening reminder that a beggar has died and the later admission that the word "death" feels heavy tonight.
The speaker comes across as a watchful walker, curious, a little lonely, and alert to endings. Lights go out, a sprinter wins to silence, a horn plays its tune and stops. Yet the mood isn't gloomy. Humor and affection keep creeping in, whether in the dust mites or the rooster admiring the maple. The last poem ties it together: the speaker has been hunting for the perfect haiku, and then the sun comes out, as if the day itself supplied it.