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.