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.