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.