Archive for the ‘Sonoran Desert’ Category
Sonoran Spring Wildflowers — Image by kenne
Along the trail,
the desert wildflowers arrive quietly—
yellow, violet, white—
as if the desert, after months of restraint,
has decided to speak
in small bursts of color.
Sonoran Blue Sky — Image by kenne
The sky lays itself down
across the mountains
like a second world—
blue poured into stone.
No sermon here,
just light telling rock
what it already knows.
A Sonoran Morning — Image by kenne
Bright sunlight, black tower, white sky.
The blades carve the morning into pieces.
Somewhere a tank fills,
somewhere a man believes
he has mastered this land.
But the wind owns the rhythm,
and the desert keeps the final say.
— kenne
Soaptree Yacca — Image by kenne
Wind scrapes the flats raw.
The yucca holds its green knives
close to the bone of earth.
Bloom is rare.
That’s the point.
In this place
beauty is earned slowly.
— 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
Cactus Wren Waits for the Dust from a Desert Storm to Move On — Image by kenne
Morning haze rolls in
like a tired excuse.
The desert listens,
doesn’t argue,
lets it pass.
— kenne
Cedar Waxwings Sharing Berries — Image by kenne
They pass a berry
beak to beak, politely,
as if time allows this.
— kenne
Backlot props — Image by kenne
I wander the dusty backlot of Old Tucson
where a broken wagon wheel leans
against a wall the color of old adobe.
A sign reads Props, but really,
who can tell?
Everything here looks equally retired—
the wooden crates, the tin stars,
the barrel with no bottom.
I stand there wondering
if this is what happens to a life too:
all our moments stored behind a door
labeled with someone else’s handwriting.
— kenne
Old Prickly Pear and Longleaf False Goldeneye — Image by kenne
Desert Fable
“I love rugged men,”
said the bright little flower,
stretching toward the sun.
The old prickly pear
only chuckled—
“Child, love the wind instead.
He’ll come and go,
but never cling.”
Sunset Sky — Image by kenne
Photography patronizes.
Life moves—
blur, breath, forgetting.
A flash halts it,
fixes detail
into permanence—
which is its lie.
— kenne
Image by kenne
Fly on a Cowpen Daisy
Down by the wash,
a cowpen daisy sways,
a fly pauses—
Ptilodexia, they call it.
It tastes the sun,
turns its head to the wind,
drinks the day
like a man lifting a whiskey
on a long, slow afternoon.
Life here is stubborn,
small as a fly,
big as the sky,
and it doesn’t ask
for anything but time
to do its work.
I watch.
Photograph.
Some days,
that’s enough.
Regal Horned Lizard
Regal Horned Lizard
Some call it horny toad,
a childhood name—
but the desert knows
the weight of its crown.
Spined head,
armor of stone and scale,
it waits in the wash,
a stature of stillness
while ants march toward
the open gate of its mouth.
Patience is its kingdom.
Dust its throne.
Kneel close enough,
and the gold of its eye
shows you the desert
watching back.
Regal Horned Lizard
Monsoon Sunset from Our Patio — Image by kenne
Even when the storm hides the sky, the sun finds a crack to remind us it is eternal.
— kenne