Just a spark

He breathed on to his fingertips willing them to warm up.  The campfire had gone out during the night in spite of his best efforts to keep it going.  He was thankful that he'd at least taken the time to gather more kindling last evening.  Papa had always said, "Do the work now little one.  Tomorrow will only bring more."   The frost on the ground stung his feet through the muslin strips he's wrapped tightly around them.  The pain from the cold would have made gathering the twigs and leaves dreadful.  As it was he was hunched into a tight ball to keep the cold at bay.

Another deep breath, followed by a gentle exhale and his fingers, stiff from the cold, began to ease open.   He reached slowly and deliberately for the pile of kindling, carefully placing the fire's fuel so it would be ready to greet the reignited flame.  The slow movements ached at first but also helped loosen the muscles in his wrists and fingers.  Then he reached between his knees for the pouch that contained his fire kit laying on his feet.  The pouch contained his flint, steel and some pieces of char cloth he'd made before starting this journey.  He picked a piece of char cloth, laid it on top of the flint near the edge to catch the sparks as he'd quickly draw the steel against the flint. His concentration on the rapid striking of the steel on flint shut out the aching stiffness.  The char cloth caught the sparks.  He laid down the steel and gentle blew on the sparks.  His free hand picked up some of the dry leaves and surrounded the cloth.  He blew again and the sparks danced over to the leaves and turned into flames.  Now that the fire had caught the kindling materials, he placed the flaming bundle under the logs and continued to feed the flame bits of twig and leaves to keep it going until the big pieces of wood caught the fire.