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.