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#.#..#.##. 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. #.#.#.##..
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#.#..#.##. 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.       #.#.#..#.#
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