White Clouds Under a Cloud Cover — Image by kenne
No drama in this sky,
no thunder, no blaze—
just a quiet occupation
of white under gray.
The mountain breathes slowly
under its coverlet of cloud.
And something in me
loosens,
as if certainty were never
the point at all.
— kenne
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Isle of the Sun — Photo-artistry by kenne
On the Isle of the Sun
the houses lean open—
not broken, not abandoned—
the doorways don’t close
just unwilling to keep anything in.
Each window
leans forward,
hungry for light,
for the shimmer of the lake
breathing sky back into itself.
I stand in one threshold
and feel the old stories
press through my ribs.
I walk through a room
and the sun walks with me—
no permission asked.
And still—
the openings remain,
wide, insistent,
as if to say:
nothing we love
was ever meant
to stay contained.
And the lake—
always the lake—
keeps answering
with a brightness
that does not belong to me
but enters anyway.
— kenne
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Great Horned Owl — Image by kenne
Feathers the color of dust and bark,
perfect camouflage—
until the eyes ignite.
He looks through me
like I’m another passing nuisance.
Out here, I am.
— kenne
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Richardson’s Geranium — Image by kenne
Edge of the stream—
roots hold in thin soil.
Flower beetles
working the flower
like a quiet craft.
Nothing extra here.
— kenne
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Joy Shopping in Nogales, Mexico — Image by kenne
You walk past the stalls,
shirts, saints, silver rings—
everything waiting to be chosen.
But it’s the shadows
that cling to you,
as if they know your name.
— kenne
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Abstract Art Created Two Decades Ago by kenne
Squares, circles, planes of color—disciplined, contained. The frame is not neutral; it domesticates abstraction. What once might have provoked now decorates. The eye registers order, but the mind asks: order toward what end?
— kenne
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Cocklebur Art by kenne
In the wide austerity of the Sonoran Desert
even weeds should have some dignity.
But cockleburs—
they cling, they crowd, they conquer
without grace.
I admire their tenacity,
then curse it,
then carefully walk by.
— kenne
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Clouds Over the Desert — Image by kenne
Clouds roll lazily over the desert sky,
late light bending low—
like Bob Dylan humming
through an iPhone.
Nothing to hold on to
but the way the day lets go.
— kenne
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Two Couples On the Edge — Image by kenne
Tourists whisper,
ravens circle.
Four figures at the rim,
two arm in arm
above the wide breathing earth.
Even here, at the Grand Canyon,
love tries to hold the horizon.
Click.
The photograph holds them
for a moment.
— kenne
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Early Morning in Sabino Canyon — Image by kenne
Morning spills gold through the canyon.
A cactus lifts its arms
as if remembering a prayer.
I walk beneath it and hear
the quiet voice of Rumi:
The road you walk
is walking you home
— kenne
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Sandhill Cranes at Whitewater Draw — Image by kenne
All winter the valley
held their voices.
Now the wind opens a door
and thousands rise—
long necks, slow wings,
syllables of change.
Somewhere north
a river bends
and already expects them.
Migration is simply
love moving
toward its next body.
— kenne
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Sandhill Cranes Preparing to Migrate North — image by kenne
The marsh holds them a little longer,
a shallow mirror of sky and bone-colored light.
They stand in the water
like thoughts that haven’t resolved,
tall, uncertain,
beautiful in their hesitation.
Even migration
has its hour of doubt.
— kenne
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Marine Blues On Moist Rocks Near a Mountain Stream — Image by kenne
Butterflies on moist rocks,
suddenly the world makes sense.
Color speaking to color,
wing touching wind.
Yes, I think—
this is how things work.
Then, the butterflies lift,
vanish off the rocks,
and the rocks stand alone
with their quiet question.
I get it.
Then I don’t.
— kenne
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Broadbilled Hummingbird — Image by kenne
You say,
“It’s just another hummingbird day.”
But look—
a small green flame
hovering in the air
like a thought the world is having.
Every morning
the universe practices this trick:
wings faster than worry,
a heart beating like a tiny drum of praise.
Tell me again
what you mean
by ordinary.
— kenne
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Bluebird Preening on a Limb — Image by kenne
A bluebird, occupied with itself—
feather drawn through beak,
a ritual of care.
The image slips out of focus.
What should be a failure
is kept—
because the blur records
a life unwilling to be stilled.
— kenne
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