The Black Bridge in the Grand Canyon — Image by kenne
The Black Bridge is officially called the Kaibab Suspension Bridge. It carries the South Kaibab Trail across the Colorado River and is the bridge used by hikers and mule trains traveling to and from Phantom Ranch. The raft below the bridge appears tiny, yet the bridge itself spans about 440 feet across the Colorado River. The Black Bridge and the nearby Silver Bridge are the only crossings of the river for many miles in either direction.
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.
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.
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.
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.
Great Blue Heron — Image by kenne
The wetlands wake slowly.
A coot leaves a trail across the water.
A breeze rattles the reeds.
Somewhere beyond the ponds, traffic begins
its daily argument with distance.
Then the blue heron rises.
His wings gather the morning light,
not brightly, not proudly—
just enough to reveal the strength
hidden inside feathers.
He moves over Sweetwater
the way memory moves through a life,
touching one place, then another,
never fully landing.
When he disappears behind the mesquite,
the silence he leaves behind
feels larger than the sky.
Regal Horned Lizard — Image by kenne
“Horned toad,” they often say,
but names can miss the truth.
This close-up reveals a reptile warrior,
its scales etched like weathered sandstone,
its horns standing guard above calm eyes.
Neither toad nor myth,
but a regal horned lizard—
one of the desert’s most remarkable creations.
