Archive for the ‘Sabino Canyon’ Tag
Kenne Getting Some Arizona Sun On Our Patio
While here he spent some time running in Sabino Canyon
in preparation for a half-marathon this February.
Kenne David is visiting us on my birthday, January 15, 2026. He is an ICU nurse in the Texas Medical Center in Houston. What follows is a poem I wrote after learning of the murder of Alex Pretti in Minneapolis.
I can only try to imagine your words and thoughts echo in the long corridors of Memorial Herman,
where the scent of antiseptic mingles with your compassion.
I think of him — of Alex Pretti — and of all who labor, sleepless,
hands trembling not with fear, but with the weight of mercy.
Each life touched, each breath steadied,
a verse in the grand poem of endurance and love,
something Whitman would write: you do not falter;
rise again the next day, mortal yet eternal,
each healer a leaf upon the same vast tree of humanity.
Burrs, the Original Velcro — Image by kenne
You cling.
Let’s start there.
Not affection—
need.
You grab my sock
as if it owes you something,
as if we were once intimate
and I forgot to call.
I stand still,
arguing silently with a plant
that refuses to let go
without taking a piece of me.
— kenne
Varied Bunting on a Mesquite Limb — Image by kenne
He sings from the mesquite,
not for us,
but as if the air itself
needed a name
to keep from vanishing.
— kenne
Sabino Canyon at Sunrise — Image by kenne
I walk into the new year
as one walks in the desert—
not to conquer,
not to hurry,
but to notice.
By the seventh day
the path is still open,
and I am still learning
to say thank you.
— kenne
Desert Noir by kenne
black sky—
sepia arms
lifted
in a dry
hallelujah.
Desert Existential Moment — Image by kenne
Thinking is the fever we mistake for health.
We name the world to quiet it,
draw borders around what frightens us.
But fear is faithful—
it returns with every sunrise,
reminding us the map is not the mountain,
and reason only another storm
in the endless desert of being.
— kenne
One of Several Low-water Crossings in Sabino Canyon — Image by kenne
Low-Water Bridges
There’s a kind of mischief in a low-water bridge.
Looks harmless when the creek’s quiet—
just a flat stretch of concrete
with dragonflies for sentries.
But you wait for the rain.
Then it turns trickster—
swells its belly,
covers the road,
and dares you to guess how deep.
I crossed one at sunrise once,
boots wet,
heart lighter
than it had any right to be.
The creek chuckled under its breath—
as if it knew a thousand fools before me
had tried to outsmart water,
most have failed to win.
— kenne
Sabino Canyon Sunrise — Image by kenne
“Photographs do not render reality–realistically.
It is reality which is scrutinized, and evaluated, for its fidelity to photographs.
Instead of just recording reality, photographs have become the norm
for the way things appear to us, thereby changing the very idea of reality,
and of realism.”
— Susan Sontag
Cactus Wren Stands On Stone — Image by kenne
Cactus Wren
Small body,
big sky.
The wren stands on stone,
neck stretched—
a brown speck of defiance
against all that blue and white.
Maybe it sings,
maybe it prays,
maybe it just wants to touch
what won’t come down.
Two Cedar Waxwings In The Canyon — Image by kenne
Waxwings in Sabino Canyon
Out of the dry wash—
stone upon stone,
echo of waters parted—
two cedar waxwings perch,
silent ministers
in a wilderness of thorns.
Early spring—
season of beginnings
already half-broken,
waiting for breath.
They do not touch.
The pause is their covenant.
And the canyon
is witness.
Photographer at Sunrise — Image by kenne
Before the Light
Before sunrise,
I led them into the canyon—
the air still holding its night chill,
the world balanced
between darkness and light.
They came for beauty,
tripods and lenses ready,
each hoping to steal
a piece of the dawn.
I told them to listen first—
to the canyon waking,
signaling where to stand
when the sun finally rose
through the notch in the mountains.
It wasn’t the light that mattered
but the waiting—
that long breath
when the desert decides
to be seen.
They clicked their shutters,
each trying to trap eternity.
I just watched,
thinking how the real photograph
is the one the desert keeps—
and never shows.
Sabino Canyon Sunrise — Image by kenne
Nurse Tree
The saguaros stand—
green towers,
ribbed and stubborn,
older than fences,
older than men.
At their side
a mesquite stands broken,
once a nurse tree,
a shield from sun and frost,
now driftwood for the wind.
That’s the desert way:
to raise the young,
then vanish—
leaving only the wind,
and the silence
of a job well done.
Dragonfly Silhouette — Image by kenne
Dragonfly, Thorn
black wing
balanced on thorn—
silence
made visible.
Saguaro Sunrise In Sabino Canyon — Image by kenne
At first light
the saguaro rises,
its many arms lifted
like a dynamic congregation.
In Sabino Canyon
the sun spills over ridges,
and each arm throws
a separate shadow—
a forest of silhouettes
born from a single body.
The desert floor
becomes a canvas of shade,
lines stretching,
splitting,
merging again,
as if the giant were painting
its own story in silence.
Audacity
Life meets you
at the line you dare to cross—
not before.
It listens for the weight
in your step,
the courage in your reach,
the fire you throw against silence.
Audacity is the language it knows.
The bolder you speak,
the closer it comes,
opening paths
that hide from the hesitant.
