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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.



It's a slow, rolling sort of morning.  The crows left bones below the cedars and the coffee went down too easy.  I walked to the grocery for rice milk and avocados but arrived home with butter and chocolate chips.  Harlem jazz is creeping out the single pane windows and swinging down the street with the fog, and from the office, I can hear BC snapping in time.  I've been thinking about alignment.  I've been thinking about shed hunting.  I've been painting fecundity too.  I made two rings for you; they're filled with breath and balance and kyanite and the arcing glow of burnished sterling.  It's good to be alive.