Smoke rises in the hills across the valley, while behind me the fire approaches the church on the mountain top. Incredibly, as I type this, fireworks are going off nearby. I shake my head in disbelief. How can they be so confident, as they are, that fireworks will extinguish in the air, and that any wind blowing them off course away from ploughed paddocks will also blow them out?
I will water my trees and try to sleep tonight; there is nothing constructive that I can do. I am not in any danger, but I find this whole attitude to fire most distressing. I can smell the smoke outside, here but not here. Time to close the doors and read a good book. I have not the slightest desire to go to the festa along the road where the smoke will be hanging in the air.
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