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.