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.