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.