Bottle Brush Bush Blossom — Image by kenne
The bottle brush blooms as if it remembers another country. Its scarlet flowers hang from the branches like tiny brushes dipped in paint, each one catching sunlight and holding it a moment longer than the day allows. Hummingbirds arrive without invitation. They know what I sometimes forget—that beauty does not announce itself. It waits in the yard, patient as an old relative, until someone finally looks.
Orange Sulphur On a Mexican Bird of Paradise — Image by kenne
Song of the Butterfly
(In the Style of Walt Whitman)
I celebrate the Orange Sulphur!
I celebrate the yellow wanderer,
resting for a moment upon
the red and gold extravagance
of the Mexican Bird of Paradise.
Not hurried,
not troubled by clocks or calendars,
it pauses in the desert sunlight,
its wings holding the color of ripe lemons,
of dawn breaking over distant mountains.
O small traveler!
You belong to the flowers,
to the wind,
to the same vast earth
that bears the mountains and the sea.
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
Image by kenne
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.
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.
Bearded Penstemons — Image by kenne
High upon the mountain trail,
Where pine and aspen share the breeze,
The bearded penstemon blooms bright
Among the grasses and the trees.
Its petals gather drops of rain,
Its stems bend lightly in the wind,
Yet every blossom seems to hold
The strength of stone beneath its skin.
When sunset paints the distant peaks
In amber, rose, and fading gold,
The penstemon keeps its quiet watch,
A mountain treasure to behold.
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.
