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.