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.