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.