Archive for the ‘Santa Catalina Mountains’ Tag
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
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.
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
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
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.
Clouds at Sunset — Image by kenne
white clouds unfolding
across the mountain’s dark skin—
light lingers, then slips
Golden Columbine — Image by kenne
Late September
You shouldn’t still be here.
The cold has already taken the others.
Frost waits in the dark.
I stop, look at you.
A mistake,
outlasting your season.
Trail Break — Image by kenne
We sit on a log,
boots steaming in the shade,
passing the water bottle
like communion.
No one says much—
as if words might startle
the silence
that’s been following us
all morning.
— kenne
Catalina Foothills — Image by kenne
Foothills at Sunset
Broken clouds—
a grammar of silence.
The mountain waits,
its edge dissolving
into violet air.
Light departs,
leaving only the memory of flame.
Between earth and sky
a pause—
the foothills speak nothing,
yet all is said.
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.
Molino Basin Trail — Image by kenne
Missing the Trails
I miss the dust,
the way it clings to your boots
like memory.
The smell of creosote after rain,
the hawk cutting silence
into ribbons of sky.
Down here,
everything feels too paved,
too polite.
Up there,
the mountains didn’t care—
and that was freedom.
Cutleaf Evening Primrose — Image by kenne
Mountain Winter Wind
Cold wind,
trees stripped bare.
Leaves fallen
become a blanket—
seeds sleep
in that dark warmth.
Still,
one primrose
pushes through—
yellow note
against the gray,
a small song
of duende.
Full Moon Rising Over Blackett’s Ridge Just As The Sun Sets — Image by kenne
Full Moon on Blackett’s Ridge
Sun’s droppin’ low over Tucson,
painting everything old whiskey gold.
You can feel the light dying,
hear the coyotes start to tune up—
like the land itself needs a song
to make peace with the dark.
And there it is—
the moon,
white as a scar on a healed-up sky,
climbing slowly over Blackett’s Ridge.
Three Sonoran Toads In Sabino Creek — Image by kenne
The Eyes Have It
Three toads in the creek—
the world keeps moving past them,
I pause, and join in.
Catalina Foothills — Image by kenne
Sun sinks low,
slips under clouds,
canyons gone dark,
shadows loud.
Light keeps fighting,
gray-black on stone—
then night rolls in,
makes it its own.
