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 
 indisciminatory, they  hurt but deal  no 
 long  time  damage  to the wielder.  the 
 next  five you  must spend wisely,  they 
 will take days  to  heal. the  next 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.