Fly Ptilodexia on Mountain Wildflower — Photo-artistry by kenne
Balanced on delicate petals,
the fly explores a world of color and scent.
What seems ordinary at first glance
becomes extraordinary through the lens,
revealing nature’s intricate connections.
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.
Spring Awakening -- Image by kenne
Along the mountain's winding trail,
Spring scatters blossoms on the breeze.
Purple lupines sway and bow,
While golden poppies light the leaves.
The Santa Catalinas glow
In shades of yellow, red, and blue.
Each blossom is a mountain song,
Brief, bright, and forever true.
Hiking with Friends -- Image by kenne
Through the empty frame
Friends wander beneath blue skies
Past and present meet
Rose Lake in the Catalina Mountains — Image by kenne
— kenne
Great Horned Owl — Image by kenne
— kenne
Richardson’s Geranium — Image by kenne
Marine Blues On Moist Rocks Near a Mountain Stream — Image by kenne
Butterflies on moist rocks,
suddenly the world makes sense.
Color speaking to color,
wing touching wind.
Yes, I think—
this is how things work.
Then, the butterflies lift,
vanish off the rocks,
and the rocks stand alone
with their quiet question.
I get it.
Then I don’t.
— kenne
Golden Columbine — Image by kenne
On black
the gold grows louder.
Each curve deliberate,
each throat of light
a doorway inward.
Look long enough
and the flower
becomes landscape.
— 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
Male Phainopepla — Image by kenne
He is so high in the mesquite
I must squint—
An ace of spades caught in thorns.
Yet I feel the small red spark
of his eye
fasten to me.
The branch yields, does not surrender.
My grandmother said
real strength makes no announcement;
it simply remains.
He falls—
a swift stroke of black—
and rises again
to the same waiting limb.
Nothing altered, it seems.
But the desert keeps a breath
between his leaving and return,
and in that held silence
my heart shifts,
quiet as sand
after the wind.
— kenne
Mushrooms and Moss on Mt. Lemmon — Image by kenne
— kenne
Cedar Waxwings Sharing Berries — Image by kenne
— kenne
Mushroom Art — Image by kenne
— kenne
Birdbill Dayflowers On Mt. Lemmon — Image by kenne
— kenne
