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.