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.