I’m eighty-five—
though the number sits beside me
more than inside me.
Some mornings I rise feeling sixty,
still curious, still willing to wander.
At night I dream in the language of thirty,
doors still opening, roads still unnamed.
And sometimes—without apology—
seventeen returns, grinning.
Saguaro Morning In Colored Pencil — Image by kenne
The mountains hold the background in cool blues and violets,
while the sunrise burns softly at their edges.
In the foreground, the saguaros stand rooted and calm,
their forms rendered in layered greens and ochres.
The whole image feels suspended
between night and day—
between observation
and memory.
Sonoran Spring Wildflowers — Image by kenne
Along the trail,
the desert wildflowers arrive quietly—
yellow, violet, white—
as if the desert, after months of restraint,
has decided to speak
in small bursts of color.
Dead Nurse Tree at Sunrise — Image by kenne
I can’t prove it—
But these young Saguaro cactus
stand there, steady in their twenties,
as if the dead nurse tree still lingers in them—
a memory of shade,
a shelter that did its work
and then let go.
Growing Slowly Under Protection — Image by kenne
Wind, cold, relentless light—
the elements press their questions.
The small saguaro answers
by remaining,
by trusting the shade offered
by something older, larger.
There is a kind of wisdom
in growing slowly under protection.
Greater Earless Lizard in Sabino Canyon — Image by kenne
No ears to catch the wind,
yet it listens—
through heat, through shadow,
through the tremble of ground beneath it.
Balanced on rock,
it belongs more completely
than anything that passes.
Eastern Collard Lizard Sunning in the Morning Sun — Image by kenne
Wind threads canyon walls,
yet the lizard stays anchored—
sun writes on its back.
Curve-billed Thraster on an Ocotillo limb — Image by kenne
Amber eye watching,
it sings from thorns into light—
morning made audible.
Silver-spotted Skipper, a Little Rough Around the Edges — Image by kenne
To look at this skipper
is to confront the aesthetic of use.
The roughness at the margins suggests a history
we cannot access directly, only infer.
Unlike the pristine specimen, which invites admiration,
this one demands interpretation.
It asks:
what does it mean for a living form
to bear the marks of its own survival?
Dragonfly in Black and White — Image by kenne
brushstroke dragonfly,
spine like a reed in wind—
the artist knew
what the marsh knows:
balance is a brief agreement
Hiking into the Morning Sun — Image by kenne
The desert does not hurry us.
Even the sun takes its time
climbing the ridge,
spilling light into every hollow.
We hike, and something in us
loosens—
as if the day is not something to conquer,
but something to meet
with open arms.
Red-tailed Hawk Over Tucson Skies — Image by kenne
Morning lifts on quiet thermals,
and there you are—
a single intention
written against the light.
Not striving, not hurried—
just the slow agreement
between feather and wind.
If I could learn anything today,
let it be this:
how to trust what carries me.
Sonoran Blue Sky — Image by kenne
The sky lays itself down
across the mountains
like a second world—
blue poured into stone.
No sermon here,
just light telling rock
what it already knows.
Wild Senna On the Slope Behind Our House — Image by kenne
Sunlit blossoms nod,
each one a small declaration:
I am here, I bloom.
