Female Green Lynx Spider with Egg Sack — Image by kenne
Close-Up Naturalist
Archive for the ‘Santa Catalina Mountains’ Tag
Close-Up Naturalist 1 comment
The green lynx works in quick, precise strokes,
Thread by thread, she seals the egg sac
The Photographer 2 comments
Photo-artistry by kenne
The Photographer
He lifts the camera
as if confessing—
the lens a small mercy
between himself and beauty.
Each click
is a way of saying I see you,
and also I can’t bear to lose you.
In the mountains,
he photographs what he loves,
and what he knows
will never belong to him.
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Golden Stillness 5 comments
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.
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Little Verdin In A Desert Willow 1 comment
Little Verdin in the Desert Willow by kenne
A tiny pulse of feather—
among the Willow’s green—
the Sky—so dark a Sapphire—
it swallows what is seen—
He flickers—like a secret—
the Morning will not tell—
and leaves the hush of Desert—
more infinite—and still—
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Home Sweet Home Leave a comment
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.
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Fenceline, Mt. Lemmon Leave a comment
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.
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Quiet Observation Leave a comment
A Fall Scene On Mt. Lemmon — Image by kenne
Leaves, wet and breathing,
circle the small green mind of moss.
From the cliff’s lip,
a drop gathers,
falls—
not a fall at all,
but gravity’s remembering.
— kenne
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Leaves On Aspen Trail 2 comments
Aspen Trail On Mt. Lemmon — Image by kenne
Yellow is the hush before the wind,
the trembling song of what must change.
On the Aspen Trail,
each leaf a coin of sunlight spent wisely—
then let go.
— kenne
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In A Sea Of Green 3 comments
Pipevine Swallowtail On A Thistle — Image by kenne
The swallowtail lands—
a flicker of blue fire
on the rough crown of thistle.
The meadow holds its breath,
each blade of grass
a prayer for stillness.
Beauty, brief and unashamed,
goes on living
without our witness.
— kenne
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Colors 3 comments
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.
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November Days 3 comments
November Days, We Spent More Time Inside — Image by kenne
. . . It is not the walls,
but what the walls remember—
voices layered like dust,
the scent of bread,
a name almost spoken.
We wander far to return
to what was waiting in silence,
a stillness that is neither beginning
nor end,
but the turning point
where time folds back on itself
and becomes familiar.
“Come in, she said
I’ll give shelter from the storm.”
— kenne
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Fall Colors Become Artificial Leave a comment
Photo-artistry by kenne
Mt. Lemmon’s fall colors become artificial near the fenceline
By the time you reach the fenceline,
where the last maples lean against the fence
and the ground tilts toward Tucson,
the color has gone plastic—
a red too red, a yellow borrowed
from a gas station sign.
The trees remember what’s expected of them,
how the tourists need their postcard.
A kid poses for her mother’s phone,
and the mountain obliges,
spilling out one last bit of October
for the algorithm.
You stand by the fence—
the smell of sap and exhaust mingling
and think of the men who built
the road you drove up on.
Their sweat staining the stone still,
their laughter lost somewhere
between true color and paint.
The wind tries to speak again,
but no one listens.
The leaves keep shining
in their counterfeit glory,
each one a small rebellion
already fading.
— kenne
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Fly On A Cowpen Daisy 2 comments
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.
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Clouds At Sunset Leave a comment
Clouds at Sunset — Image by kenne
white clouds unfolding
across the mountain’s dark skin—
light lingers, then slips
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Golden Columbine Leave a comment
Golden Columbine — Image by kenne
Late September
