I walk back past the large gums by the lake noting their shiny, smooth, grey-green bark—the strands of old bark shed in summer now lying wet and crumpled at their feet. No longer do they wait, with kindling-bark scattered for the fire that will not come. Now they start building up again, slowly, smoothly at first, the layers of next summer’s kindling, which will eventually dry and fall and harden with the comeback of the sun.