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.