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.