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.