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.