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.