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.