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.