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.