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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 Trees and I, we dress alike


Of course this is no surprise because inside this fragile human skin, there is a redwood with bones grown from the detritis of the past, blood pumping in crystalline shades of amber sap. The trees woke me this morning, singing the song of November, a swinging tune to the bright snap of the wind. The maple and I hum to the cherry blossom trees, lulling them to sleep with promises of a winter gifts and a brilliant spring to come. They stretch and grunt in the breeze, snuggling into autumn, bedding down before the snow falls.

We will all sleep well under this warm blanket.