The Colder The Air

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.)