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.