Archive for February 2026
Abolish ICE Demonstration In Armory Park (07/01/18) — Image by kenne
There is something about grass in Tucson—
it feels like a miracle you can sit on.
We stood on that miracle,
raising our voices.
Armory Park once trained soldiers.
That day,
it trained witnesses.
A little boy climbed
up into a jacaranda tree
and shouted a chant down at us,
his voice high and fearless.
We answered him.
Because every movement begins
with someone small enough
to believe it might work.
— kenne
Arches National Park Image by kenne
We persist in calling spirit invisible,
as though visibility were vulgar.
But what is more arrogant
than refusing incarnation?
Matter is not the enemy of meaning—
it is meaning slowed down enough to be examined.
— kenne
Kenne David and Katie on Galveston Beach — Image by kenne
Galveston still has that beach.
Kids probably still run it raw.
But Kenne and Katie grew up—
that’s the real crime.
You don’t notice it happening.
One day you’re just standing there
remembering sand
and wishing you’d paid better attention.
— kenne
Joy and Kenne — Old Western Look On The Streets of Tucson — Image by kenne
Beloved, count not distance, years,
Nor trials we have known;
For love’s arithmetic is this—
Two solitudes made one.
You are here.
I am here.
And absence finds no room between.
— kenne
Mushrooms and Moss on Mt. Lemmon — Image by kenne
Moss holds the slope together.
Mushrooms rise, then vanish.
Water remembers both.
— kenne
Abraham Lincoln Walks at Midnight
It is portentous, and a thing of state
That here at midnight, in our little town
A mourning figure walks, and will not rest,
Near the old court-house pacing up and down.
Or by his homestead, or in shadowed yards
He lingers where his children used to play,
Or through the market, on the well-worn stones
He stalks until the dawn-stars burn away.
A bronzed, lank man! His suit of ancient black,
A famous high top-hat and plain worn shawl
Make him the quaint great figure that men love,
The prairie-lawyer, master of us all.
He cannot sleep upon his hillside now.
He is among us:—as in times before!
And we who toss and lie awake for long
Breathe deep, and start, to see him pass the door.
His head is bowed. He thinks on men and kings.
Yea, when the sick world cries, how can he sleep?
Too many peasants fight, they know not why,
Too many homesteads in black terror weep.
The sins of all the war-lords burn his heart.
He sees the dreadnaughts scouring every main.
He carries on his shawl-wrapped shoulders now
The bitterness, the folly and the pain.
He cannot rest until a spirit-dawn
Shall come;—the shining hope of Europe free;
The league of sober folk, the Workers’ Earth,
Bringing long peace to Cornwall, Alp and Sea.
It breaks his heart that kings must murder still,
That all his hours of travail here for men
Seem yet in vain. And who will bring white peace
That he may sleep upon his hill again?
— Nicholas Vachel Lindsay (November 10, 1879 – December 5, 1931)
Male Broad-banded Swallowtail — Image by kenne
A butterfly is a question
with wings.
This one asks it slowly,
circling cattails and light,
as though the answer might be
something you feel, not know.
— kenne
Clouds Over The Grand Teton National Park (06/06/23) — image by kenne
We leave Yellowstone—
the road straightens,
mountains step back into order.
Broken clouds hold the sun
like a shutter half-closed.
— kenne
Cedar Waxwings Sharing Berries — Image by kenne
They pass a berry
beak to beak, politely,
as if time allows this.
— kenne
Sunset — Image by kenne
The sun sets
not because it is tired,
but to remind us
that endings
are another way
the soul learns trust.
— kenne
Mushroom Art — Image by kenne
On dead wood
color breaks open:
spores, brushstrokes, breath.
The forest practices
its oldest craft—reuse.
— kenne
Lesser Goldfinch — Image by kenne
This morning in southern Arizona,
the goldfinch wears yellow
like a small declaration.
I imagine he woke early
just to coordinate with the light,
while I stumbled out here
in whatever the day gave me.
— kenne
Waterfowl and Wading Birds at Whitewater Draw, January 2026 – Image by kenne
Another season, another return.
The birds arrive, faithful as gravity.
If they ever stop coming,
don’t ask the birds why—
ask the men who drained the water.
— kenne
Good Morning from Sabino Canyon — Image by kenne
The day begins
not with noise
but with attention.
Sabino Canyon opens its hands,
and the light settles in—
a blessing
that asks only
to be noticed.
— kenne
Tucson Rodeo — Image by kenne
February Is Rodeo Month
February rides into Tucson with a hat on too straight and a grin rehearsed. La Fiesta de los Vaqueros declares itself, loud and confident, dust kicked up on purpose. The arena fills with men proving things to people who already agree with them. Courage is timed. Pain is applauded. Nostalgia is sold by the seat.
Outside the fence, the desert refuses to participate. Creosote blooms without banners. The mountains don’t lean in for a better view. A red-tailed hawk circles, uninterested in tradition or prize money.
I don’t oppose the rodeo so much as I distrust it—the way it shrinks a hard life into a weekend performance, the way it pretends the land was ever impressed by us. Still, now and then, a horse breaks free of the script, muscles flashing in the cold light, and for a moment the West is real again.
Then the gate slams shut. The crowd exhales. February moves on. The desert remains, having said nothing at all.
— kenne
