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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.


To Stride over Hill and Dell


To stride over hill and dell
To stride over hill and dell
To scoop up these small facets of light,
refracted by the holly, broken by the western squall.
My fingernails are ever gritty with the marks of the land,
the discards of crows and
the vain attempts of snatching scent from the loam.
But if I've learned one thing, 
it's that there is no "too old" for squatting in the detritus, sifting for story.
For when I rise, they dip their heads in conspiratorial agreement,
For the crows and I, we sing in bones.