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.