Archive for the ‘Birds’ Category
Roadrunner On Patio Wall — Image by kenne
There is something mildly suspicious
about the way he freezes mid-stride,
as if someone has pressed pause
on a very small documentary.
Then—click—
he resumes,
like a thought returning
after wandering off
to check on something
it didn’t quite trust.
I imagine his mind full of notes:
check under rock,
avoid hawk,
ignore human with camera.
A tidy philosophy,
really.
— 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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Great Blue Heron Over the Sweetwater Wetlands — Image by kenne
A shadow slides across the marsh
before the bird arrives.
Long legs trailing,
neck folded like a question.
For a moment,
the wetlands remember
what this valley looked like
before water engineers showed up.
— kenne
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Male Phainopepla High in a Mesquite Tree — Image by kenne
The phainopepla sits in the mesquite
like a drop of ink that refused to dry.
My naturalist mentor would say
some creatures are born already knowing
how to keep their shine.
When it lifts,
white flashes beneath its wings—
a secret lining
only shown in motion.
— kenne
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Bluebird in Flight Abstract by kenne
the bluebird
there’s a bluebird in my heart that
wants to get out
but I’m too tough for him,
I say, stay in there,I’m not going
to let anybody see
you.
there’s a bluebird in my heart that
ants to get out
but I pour whiskey on him and inhale
cigarette smoke
and the whores and the bartenders
and the grocery clerks
never know that
he’s
in there.
there’s a bluebird in my heart that
wants to get out
but I’m too tough for him,
I say, stay down, do you want to mess
me up?
you want to screw up the
works?
you want to blow my book sales in
Europe?
there’s a bluebird in my heart that
wants to get out
but I’m too clever, I only let him out
at night sometimes
when everybody’s asleep.
I say, I know that you’re there,
so don’t be
sad.
then I put him back,
but he’s singing a little
in there, I haven’t quite let him
die
and we sleep together like
that
with our
secret pact
and it’s nice enough to
make a man
weep, but I don’t
weep…
do you?
— Charles Bukowski
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Cooper’s Hawk in the Patio Olive Tree Near the Bird Feeder– Image by kenne
The feeder is our promise to small lives.
The hawk is the answer we cannot control.
When he drops—swift, inevitable—
the air itself seems to close.
Afterward, the patio is ordinary again,
except for the silence that lingers.
— kenne
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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
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Varied Bunting on a Mesquite Limb — Image by kenne
He sings from the mesquite,
not for us,
but as if the air itself
needed a name
to keep from vanishing.
— kenne
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A Reddish Egret Above the Gulf Shore — Image by Hugh
A reddish egret lifts off,
legs trailing like thin brushstrokes,
wings catching the salt-bright wind —
a flame rising from blue water.
— kenne
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Little Verdin in the Desert Willow by kenne
Little Verdin in the Desert Willow
A tiny pulse of feather—
among the Willow’s green—
the Sky—so dark a Sapphire—
it swallows what is seen—
He flickers—like a secret—
the Morning will not tell—
and leaves the hush of Desert—
more infinite—and still—
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Male Cardinal in a Mesquite Tree — Image by kenne
Cardinal flares bright flame,
mesquite shadows bow around—
sunlight says amen.
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Two Cedar Waxwings In The Canyon — Image by kenne
Waxwings in Sabino Canyon
Out of the dry wash—
stone upon stone,
echo of waters parted—
two cedar waxwings perch,
silent ministers
in a wilderness of thorns.
Early spring—
season of beginnings
already half-broken,
waiting for breath.
They do not touch.
The pause is their covenant.
And the canyon
is witness.
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Willet On The Sea of Cortés Shore — Image by kenne
Willet stands patient,
Sea of Cortés tide whispering,
feet sink into dusk.
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Raven Out On A Limb
Raven’s back turned still,
perched on limb in desert light—
holds a silent watch.
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Image by kenne
Two Ravens
Twin shapes on a branch,
one croaks low, the other waits—
wind between their words.
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