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.