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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 Weekend's Account




glorious sun with a bitter chill on the air; a golden dawn, bronze light falling through sheer curtains
persimmons and the "best damn grapefruit you've ever tasted" (as the market vendor told me)
breakfast out, oatmeal with the works, stroll around the plaza
pine siskins.  clearing seed fast, sometimes ten to a feeder sock, a whirling, whistling, chattery group of yellow streaked wings and grippy little toes.
letter writing on graph paper, black ink smeared on a left hand

reading her book of poetry (it's so good I could burst with pride)
plantish retail therapy.  the woman who runs the nursery again commenting on my "massive growing collection" of house plants - "why here you are again!  a new plant every time!"  i refuse to be shamed
too much tea
painting, painting, and painting even more.  pushing water, finding deer, daydreaming, mountain hunting, budding twigs, swirling rainbows
blue apatite genuine paint on a "good" shirt.  blerg

"back-rub in a cup" - scratch brewed vegan chai
rasping sound of files on metal and the hot whirl of a polishing wheel.  prehnite, chrysoprase, larimar, color splashed along the bench
a kitchen well scrubbed down
scent of roasting squash
buckwheat heating pillows in bed, new fiction, mint tea, slumbering cats

my friends,
i hope the weekend was all that you needed with snow flurries on top!