Bleary

He stood in the door for a moment.  An increasingly longer moment, he noticed as years progressed.  He removed the floppy leather hat and placed it on the peg beside the door once he could see well enough to find it.  He raked his fingers through his bushy beard and inhaled the soft bite of stale smoke.  The interior of the shack was just as faded as the exterior.  The dim light strained through the single grimy window on the south wall.  Dry plants hung from the low rafters. Traps of various types and size hung on the wall.  He shuffled over to the wood stove in the centre of the room.  It was slightly warm to the touch.  He opened the iron door, a swirl of ash breathed hope into the coals as some fell to the mantle.  Without concern for the new mess he through a small piece of wood into the midst.  The addition caused a more violent rustling of sparks and ash.  After making the appropriate adjustments to fuel and heat he closed the door to within a few centimetres.  He shuffled back toward the door with his "green" coat in hand to hang it on the other peg by the door.  He clapped his large leathery hands and rubbed them together briskly.  The sharpness of new smoke caught his attention and he adjusted the flue to prevent  more smoke pouring into the room.  Immediately the brightness of flames leapt out of the vents.  He blinked out the smoke and momentary blindness while rolling up his flannel sleeves.  He struck a match to the oil lamp on the table as the last rays of the setting sun fell from the window ledge.  Once again he raked his fingers through his salt and pepper beard, mostly salt at this junction in his life, he mused.