in  the  endless  winter  day,   on  the 
 crystal white plains...  we trudge along 
   the train tracks... themselves slowly  
 snowed over,  in  the still  hours since 
          the last supply train.          
                                          
     bell-like sounds of the blinding     
 ground. rifles  attached to  our  wrist, 
 sharing  in  our  bloodstream. my husky, 
      my warm-coffee-in-cold-snow...      
                                          
 the  first  five  shots  you  can  spend 
 indiscriminately,  they hurt but deal no 
 long  time  damage  to the shooter.  the 
 next five  you must  spend  wisely, they 
 will take days to  heal.  the final five 
 you   must    not    spend    at    all. 
                                          
 weeks earlier, in the weak  autumn dawn, 
 in the  blue-gray  fog...  something  is 
 burning   with  a  deep  crimson  flame, 
       untameable by water or wind.