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.