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.