The dead angophora slowly scatters its bark like a burns patient shedding her bandages, the bald wood redolent of charred, oozing skin. Cool air kisses the sandstone ledge and whispers of the long gone sea. There is not enough fairness in this world. Some houses are miraculously spared, others flattened by a firestorm sweeping through the long paddocks, the hamlet, the valley. Hard to look at such wholesale carnage and not cry. Hard to believe the grafts will take, that the house will rise again, high on its blackened stumps. This is a place where people have always had to…