Sandhill Cranes at Whitewater Draw — Image by kenne
— kenne
Common Green Darner Dragonflies — Image by kenne
two green helicopters
hooked together
like they don’t give a damn
who’s watching.
the pond water barely moves.
a red-wing blackbird mouths off.
life keeps doing
what life does—
no speeches,
no apologies.
— kenne
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
Cedar Waxwings Arrive Without Announcement — Image by kenne
Soft crests,
yellow-tipped tails—
a small northern fire.
We host them briefly.
The desert offers fruit,
water,
a resting branch.
Hospitality is an old law.
— kenne
Great Blue Heron — Image by kenne
Golden eye
tracking light on scales.
No hurry in him—
only weather,
only patience
older than bridges upstream.
The river keeps moving.
He does not.
— kenne
Reaven In The Desert — Image by kenne
I have distrusted symbols
most of my life,
yet there it is—
black wings over sand
that has forgotten rain.
The bird does not promise rescue.
It promises presence.
In the desert,
that distinction matters.
— kenne
Wildflowers In The Catalina Foothills — Image by kenne
Catalina foothills—
poppies flare in the gravel wash,
lupine stitching nitrogen
back into the lean soil.
Rock, root, bee—
no wasted motion.
Wind off the Santa Catalinas
combs the grass
and the flowers bow
without complaint.
— kenne
Gray Hairstreak on Desert Marigold — Image by kenne
So small—
and yet the marigold bends
as if honored.
The butterfly’s tail
flickers a blue ember.
I have lived long enough
to know
that such brightness
arrives without warning
and leaves the same way.
Still, it is here.
That is enough.
— kenne
Eastern Bluebird — Image by kenne
— kenne
Seed Pod Releasing Seeds To the Wind — Image by kenne
— kenne
Female Phainopepla In Sabino Canyon — Photo-artistry by kenne
— Paulo Coelho
Desert Existential Moment — Image by kenne
Thinking is the fever we mistake for health.
We name the world to quiet it,
draw borders around what frightens us.
But fear is faithful—
it returns with every sunrise,
reminding us the map is not the mountain,
and reason only another storm
in the endless desert of being.
— kenne
Anna’s Hummingbird, I Think — Image by kenne
Hummingbirds and the Angle of Light
— kenne
Little Verdin in the Desert Willow by kenne
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—
Rainbow with a Tucson Flare — Image by kenne
Rainbow with a Tucson Flare
It arrived like a verdict—
that rainbow—
arched over Tucson’s broken breath,
a spectrum laid upon a land
too used to drought
and good intentions gone brittle.
People came out with phones,
hungry for wonder,
proof that heaven still had
a marketing department.
The rain had barely quit falling,
and already
the city’s thirst began again—
for color,
for meaning,
for something to share.
Out by the wash,
the saguaros
kept their arms raised,
not in praise,
but interrogation.
Each thorn a question
no sermon could answer.
The rainbow lingered,
a flag without allegiance,
a bruise across the sky.
Then—
light slipped,
the air forgot its promise,
and Tucson returned
to its long work
of surviving beauty.
