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.