The Fire

The wood was wet.
He refused to use gasoline to get it going, and tried again, unfolding the ball of paper so the fire can lit it, hopefuly burning the small twigs on it.
After several minutes, some smoke gave him a bit of hope, and he put the matches away, concentrating on blowing gently in the right direction, feeding the bits of coals that caught.
The patience was rewarded and a small fire began flickering, eating up the paper and the smaller twigs, creating enough heat in the small pit so the bigger chunks of wood will start smoking and evaporating the water they had, so they can burn.
After the harsh beginning, the fire gained enough momentum to go on by itself.
It started small, almost shy, and it took all it's effort to dry the wood and consume it slowly, but in time, it gained volume and strength and burned happily, waiting to be fed more wood, consuming it easily, lifting a dense white smoke into the evening night.
The fire had it's brighter times, when it was fed with wood, and it burned high and brilliant. But it also had it's darker times, when the rain came and left it reduced to a pile of coals, burning under the surface, awaiting for circumstances to change, so it can grow again.
After several hours, having served it's purpose, the fire started to grow weaker. First the flames died. Then the smoke stopped. All that was left was a pile of coals, burning red, filling the hole, getting darker on the brim, and slowly the darkness grow into the center, leaving a light blanket of grey ashes on the surface, but still holding some warmth inside, not accepting death and the coldness of the night.
But nature continued it's course, and the fire, alone, in the night, eventually died.