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.