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.