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.