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I am UmberDove.

And by that, I mean an artist.  One who hears stories in the wind, who paints because it is what her soul tells her to do, who smiths because the muse moves through her fingertips, who loves nothing more than the promise of an unexplored trail, the sound of the ocean in her ears, and scent of a serious cup of coffee.


The First Harvest


When long summer days hang musty in the golden air, when the afternoon's warmth lingers into the night, when the spiders have all spun their crystalline webs, it is blackberry picking time. There is no season I look forward to each year as much as blackberry season, no food I am so greedy with while harvesting (one for the bucket, two for me) as blackberries. And last night, it was finally time.

In the lilting evening breeze, BC and I harvested our first cache of the year, flirting with nature, garden spiders and gopher snakes along the bus stop for the Number 19 (something I love about this city: Our most urban practices weave through wild and overgrown stretches, making you forget, for just one moment, that you are still city-bound).

A Story-Title for "Mokelumne" 2005

Blackberries fall like thorned curtains, staining fingers.
Beaver tails slap
cows bray
oars gently splash
All sounds competing for my unconscious notice.
One silver tree, caught by the sun’s falling rays
Stands like a blessing for all the wonder there is yet to see on the river.