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.