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.