The poem
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.)