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.