Japanese School Boy in Okinawa (1967) — Image by kenne
Northern Okinawa.
A schoolboy sits
beside the road.
My camera clicks
takes his image,
but not the sound
of insects,
not the warmth
of the island air,
not the generations
who walked these roads
before him.
Still—
for an instant,
his life
and mine
cross paths
through a lens,
and the mountains
witness both.
Santa Catalina Mountains — 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.
Southern Dogface On A Mexican Bird of Paradise — Image by kenne
A butterfly lands,
and for one perfect moment
the flower is still.
Pincushion Cactus Art — By kenne
I have walked on these trails
a hundred times
and frequently do not notice
the little cactus flowering
beside the trail.
Today I stop.
The mountains are still mountains.
Monsoon rains have added water
to the normally dry wash.
The sun is already warming
the canyon walls.
But something has changed.
Not the desert.
My attention.
And perhaps that is
one of the quiet gifts
a place can give us—
to make us look again.
What the Desert Keeps — Image by kenne
Tonight the desert is orange
from mountain ridge to wash,
as though the day
had broken open
and spilled its last handful of gold.
The creosote keeps its dark leaves.
The saguaro keeps its scars.
The old cottonwood keeps its shadow.
Nothing asks to be rescued.
The land has learned
what we are slow to learn:
to receive the light,
to give it back,
and to remain.
Anna’s Hummingbird at Our Patio Feeder — Image by kenne
She hovers, then drinks—
a drop of sweetness vanishes,
the feeder swings on.
Blue Heron in Sweetwater Wetlands — Image by kenne
The wetlands spread beneath him
like a green map
drawn by someone who preferred curves
to straight lines.
From his branch,
the blue heron surveys it all:
the ponds,
the cattails,
the winding paths,
and the photographers
carrying lenses large enough
to qualify as small telescopes.
He does not pose.
He simply exists.
Which, when you think about it,
is probably why so many cameras
are pointed in his direction.
Hibiscus Blossom on Our Patio — Image by kenne
This morning
the hibiscus opened
its scarlet face
to the sun.
No hesitation.
No rehearsal.
Just a quiet unfolding
from green bud
to impossible gold.
I stood beside it
with my coffee,
thinking of all the things
I postpone,
all the things
I wait to become.
The flower said nothing.
It simply bloomed.
Joshua Tree Parkway — Image by kenne
The sun spills gold across the valley.
The Joshua trees throw shadows
over stone and sand,
each one a strange monument
to survival.
A cloud drifts over the mountains.
The light changes.
For a moment the desert looks painted,
as though some wandering artist
mixed dust and sunlight together
and called it home.
Rainbow Over Tanuri Ridge (08/17/26) — Image by kenne
The Rainbow
Sandhill Cranes Migrating North From Southern Arizona (February 2026) — Image by kenne
Eastern Arizona Sky
White Mountains
far beyond sight.
The birds know.
Across the broad sky
their voices stitch
one season
to another.
No ceremony.
Just wings,
breath,
and the long road
of air.
Image by kenne
Collage by kenne (2/1/04)
When I look closely
at this collage,
I see more than faces.
I see stories
crossing like trails
through a forest.
Agnes—
the beginning of many things.
Kate—
a branch reaching outward.
Katelyn—
a blossom opening
to its own season.
The years separate them,
yet they will always be one
as naturally as trees
sharing the same earth.
Perhaps this is what photographs
are trying to teach us:
that time moves on,
yes—
but love keeps gathering,
adding one more face,
one more memory,
one more hand
to hold.
And if we are fortunate,
someone will someday
look at our picture
and feel the warmth
still shining there.
Bearded Penstemon — Image by kenne
Bearded penstemons catch the dawn,
Holding drops of silver light.
Hummingbirds dart branch to branch,
Greeting flowers through the bright.
The mountain air is cool and clear,
The canyon streams begin to sing.
Every bloom along the slope
Whispers softly, “It is spring.”
An Old Bunkhouse Near an Abandoned San Simon Valley Livestock Corral — Image by kenne
The old bunkhouse stands in quiet witness beside the abandoned corral,
its weathered boards holding stories of cattle drives, dust storms,
and long days beneath an unforgiving Arizona sky.
Once surrounded by rich grasslands stretching across the San Simon Valley,
it belonged to a landscape that sustained both livestock and the people who depended on them.
Today, the fading structure reminds us how quickly the land and its history can change,
while the Peloncillo Mountains continue their timeless watch over the valley.
