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.