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.