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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.


A Sunday Morning Commentary


(Look at that light!  I'm beginning to feel cheated if I miss the blue of sunrise, the sleepy band of pink across the Eastern sky, the puff of my own hot breath visible in the atmosphere.  It's reason alone to drag myself out of bed every day)
(The sage is shaking thirty green fists at the rains of winter, saying "take that, ya soggy bastard!  I've made it past my rookie year despite a few rocky months of water logged soil!  Kiss my purple stalk!")
(Morning toes.  I finally gave them a good sniff and guess what?  They DO smell a bit like popcorn.  But rather gross dirty popcorn that I have no interest in eating.  But puppy toes?  I could nibble on those all day long.  And speaking of long, look at those legs!  I suspect our supposedly pure-bred boxer is actually part horse)
(I desperately want hens to lay blue eggs for me.  I want the turquoise chicken rather than the golden goose and I'll build her a coop with tufted cushions and circlet of silver.  Yesterday I took myself to the Poultry Fanciers Show - yes.  It most certainly DOES exist - to do my homework and quibble with the fluffy piles of feathers there)
("B" for BC.  It's a small cup for a man who prefers just a cuppa o' coffee.  Always black)
(I tugged the last bag of blueberries out of the freezer this morning, remembering that dusty afternoon in the waning sunlight my sister and I picked buckets full up on the hill.  I miss her.  I miss our days scouring antique shops, our communal meals, our honest talks in my kitchen.  The county feels a bit lonelier now that she's moved away)
(We ate them all)
(I love the feel of slick glaze on fingertips.  I also think it's imperative that the lip of a mug fits like a puzzle piece against your lip.  So much so that I've been known to shop ceramics by discreetly holding cup after cup up to my mouth to check for the best fit, turning down the prettiest mug in a flash if the curve is wrong for these luscious ladies)

Salut my chickadees!
May the rest of your weekend hours treat you well!