On bucketing water - and a response to Jonathan Franzen

Driving to Groundswell last weekend felt like I was in a disaster movie or the end times. Maybe both. A hot and powerful westerly blew like nothing I'd ever witnessed before. Dust was blocking out the sun and masking the road like a thick dirty fog, moving chaotically in every direction. We were slowed by heavy trucks hauling water to the next tank that's run dry. All the while my phone was beeping: 'how are you in the fires?' and 'It will be a miracle if her house doesn't burn'. The one comfort of driving through in the over-cleared, over-grazed, bare, dusty, dry land is that the risk of fire is negligible because there is nothing left to burn.