Silver-spotted Skipper, a Little Rough Around the Edges — Image by kenne
Archive for the ‘Santa Catalina Mountains’ Tag
Silver-spotted Skipper 1 comment
To look at this skipper
The roughness at the margins suggests a history
Unlike the pristine specimen, which invites admiration,
It asks:
Hiking Into The Morning Sun 3 comments
Hiking into the Morning Sun — Image by kenne
The desert does not hurry us.
Even the sun takes its time
climbing the ridge,
spilling light into every hollow.
We hike, and something in us
loosens—
as if the day is not something to conquer,
but something to meet
with open arms.
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Where Were You 4 comments
Image and Poem by kenne
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Rose Lake Leave a comment
Rose Lake in the Catalina Mountains — Image by kenne
No fish yet.
Just ripples
counting time.
He listens—
water against water,
nothing wasted.
Line in,
mind out,
both drifting.
— kenne
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White Clouds Under A Cloud Cover 3 comments
White Clouds Under a Cloud Cover — 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.
— kenne
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Great Horned Owl 1 comment
Great Horned Owl — Image by kenne
Feathers the color of dust and bark,
perfect camouflage—
until the eyes ignite.
He looks through me
like I’m another passing nuisance.
Out here, I am.
— kenne
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Mountain Geranium Leave a comment
Richardson’s Geranium — Image by kenne
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Blue On The Inside, Gray On The Outside Leave a comment
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
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Yellow Disks Sketching Circles In The Air 2 comments
Sneezeweed in the Wind On Mt. Lemmon — Image by kenne
A gust arrives
and the sneezeweed bows
all at once.
Someone might call this
wildflower behavior.
But from where I’m standing
it looks suspiciously like art—
yellow disks
sketching circles in the air
while the wind
keeps erasing the drawing.
— kenne
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Mushroon In Pine Needles Leave a comment
Mushroom in Pine Needles — Image by kenne
Under ponderosa shade
one pale cap
holding up
a whole sky of trees.
— kenne
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Acorn Radicle 2 comments
Acorn Radicle — Image by kenne
Still clinging to its mother branch,
the acorn refuses good manners.
It should wait. The branch says, stay.
The wind says, soon. The acorn says, now.
So it splits its dark shell
sending a pale root nosing into open air—
a small act of rebellion against gravity,
a white question mark lowered into nothing.
In harsh country
you don’t wait for perfect ground.
You start the root before the fall.
You trust the dirt you haven’t met yet.
That’s how deserts are made—
not from patience,
but from something stubborn
refusing to postpone its life.
— kenne
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Birdbill Dayflower 2 comments
Birdbill Dayflower — Image by kenne
In the high canyons
of the Santa Catalinas,
the Birdbill Dayflower
blooms testing the theory:
that beauty
need not last
to matter.
By dusk, it has folded
its argument into seed.
— kenne
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In Honor of Georgia O’Keeffe Leave a comment
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
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Natures Synbolism Leave a comment
Saguaro Sunrise — Image by kenne
Saguaro cactus at sunrise—
you say endurance,
beauty against all odds.
I see a drunk saint
full of needles
hoarding water like secrets.
The sun bleeds out behind it
without apology.
If there’s a lesson there,
it’s that even the harshest thing
knows how to bloom
when it has to.
— kenne
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Ace of Spades 2 comments
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
