We must admire her perfect aim, 
this huntress of the winter air 
whose level weapon needs no sight, 
if it were not that everywhere 
her game is sure, her shot is right. 
The least of us could do the same. 

The chalky birds or boats stand still, 
reducing her conditions of chance; 
air's gallery marks identically 
the narrow gallery of her glance. 
The target-center in her eye 
is equally her aim and will. 

Time's in her pocket, ticking loud 
on one stalled second. She'll consult 
not time nor circumstance. She calls 
on atmosphere for her result. 
(It is this clock that later falls 
in wheels and chimes of leaf and cloud.)