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.