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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.


Sketchbook Writings


~ From my Sketchbook Writings, Sunday May 1st through Tuesday May 3rd 2011 ~
(Along the Northern California Coast, in God's own best Spring weather, with naught more than a sketchbook, a pair of cowboy boots and kindred soul to share it with)
* * *
Coffee suits me well this morning.  Thanksgiving blend indeed!  The sky is an expanse of brilliance, causing my eyes to squint and water as I outline bits of tile and glass in my sketchbook.  The people in this town feel easy, and I wonder how far reaching the cadence of their footsteps carries. When I leave, how long with I carry their slow swagger?
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* * *
For now I sit with bare feet, cold on the railing, watching waterfowl of every size floating and soaking toes in the estuary.  In the dunes below a cat hides in marsh grass, all controlled breath and snakelike tail.  He triggers a zephyr than sends my thoughts clutching at a dream; he must have been there last night, whispering feline fantasies about goslings and ancient wooden stairwells.  A single osprey hushes the noisy chatter below.  We nod, exchanging respects. The sun of the afternoon, evidenced by my scorched neck, has been masked by a marine layer.  My toes are cast cold and blue in this light.  I should stop eating pretzels.  I should pop in the shower.  I'm giving up should from my vocabulary.
* * *
* * *
I'm drunk on the luxury of the sky.  This little trip, passing so quickly, is best described by light: the flickering hot glow under the canopy of redwoods, the quiet cashmere cape while consuming eggs and toast, the bright afternoon which reduces everything to raw shape and form, the ethereal gleam of bluffs at sunset while the quail cooed and the rabbits scattered.  These are colors for which there are no names, only fleeting memory and stuttering tongues.
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