Magic Marker and Oil Painting — Image by kenne
Sunrise Over the Catalinas
Magic marker lines bleed into oil—
the desert never holds still long enough
to be captured clean.
Cactus spines catch first light,
ocotillo arms rise like prayers
half-drunk on morning air.
The mountains smolder pink and gold,
a slow ignition of everything I love—
wildness, solitude,
the stubborn ache of beauty
that doesn’t give a damn
whether I’m watching or not.
Female Green Lynx Spider with Egg Sack — Image by kenne
Close-Up Naturalist
Mt. Lemmon Autumn — Image by kenne
Golden Stillness
High on Mt. Lemmon,
the leaves burn gold—
not in dying,
but in remembering their light.
Below, the San Pedro Valley
breathes in silence,
a vast mirror
where the sun learns to meditate.
I feel the boundary dissolve—
between mountain and man,
between seeing and being seen.
The wind passes through me,
whispering:
nothing ends,
it only changes color.
Image by kenne
Autumn Still Life
Multicolored corn dried on the cob,
gourds huddle like friends in conversation—
their skins rough, their colors honest.
We gather, too,
carrying the years in our faces,
the joy in our hearts.
Outside, the wind shifts—
a hush before winter.
For a moment,
everything feels painted
in the same theme:
the harvest,
the stories,
the tender ache
of being here again.
Image by kenne
Fenceline, Mt. Lemmon
Yellow leans into the wind,
a soft surrender of summer.
Along the fence,
the season loosens its grip—
beauty, brief
and already leaving.
A Fall Scene On Mt. Lemmon — Image by kenne
— kenne
Aspen Trail On Mt. Lemmon — Image by kenne
— kenne
Pipevine Swallowtail On A Thistle — Image by kenne
— kenne
Fall Colors — Mixed Art by kenne
Copper leaf on wind,
a brushstroke of sky—
Some of it painted,
some of it dying—
each color honest.
The canvas breathes—
sap, soil, rust, light—
and somewhere in the layers
the world remembers
how to let go.
Photo-artistry by kenne
Mt. Lemmon’s fall colors become artificial near the fenceline
— kenne
Clouds at Sunset — Image by kenne
Morning Glory — Image by kenne
Morning Glory
Golden Columbine — Image by kenne
Late September
Gila Woodpecker — Image by kenne
Gila Woodpecker
That busy little thug,
black-and-white suit,
red cap like a bad idea—
he’s at it again,
beak punching neat holes
in my world.
The hummingbird feeder
wasn’t made for him,
but he doesn’t give a damn
about human intention.
Long tongue dips in,
sweet stolen fuel
for the day’s racket.
Call him nosey,
call him thief,
but look closer—
he’s just another desert anarchist,
making do in a place
that gives nothing easy.
And maybe I admire him for it,
this feathered outlaw
living by wit and boldness
reminding me that survival
is never polite.
— kenne
Trail Break — Image by kenne
We sit on a log,
boots steaming in the shade,
passing the water bottle
like communion.
No one says much—
as if words might startle
the silence
that’s been following us
all morning.
— kenne
