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.