Sonoran Sunset -- Image by kenne
The mountains darken, but above them
red, orange, and yellow gather
like old spirits around a fire,
warming the vast desert silence
one final time before night.
Archive for the ‘Sonoran Desert’ Tag
Another Beautiful Sonoran Sunset Leave a comment
Happy Mother’s Day From The Desert Southwest 1 comment
HAPPY MOTHER’S DAY!
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Sonoran Spring Wildflowers Leave a comment
Sonoran Spring Wildflowers — Image by kenne
Along the trail,
the desert wildflowers arrive quietly—
yellow, violet, white—
as if the desert, after months of restraint,
has decided to speak
in small bursts of color.
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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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Red-tailed Hawk Over Tucson Skies 4 comments
Red-tailed Hawk Over Tucson Skies — Image by kenne
Morning lifts on quiet thermals,
and there you are—
a single intention
written against the light.
Not striving, not hurried—
just the slow agreement
between feather and wind.
If I could learn anything today,
let it be this:
how to trust what carries me.
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Sonoran Blue Sky Leave a comment
Sonoran Blue Sky — Image by kenne
The sky lays itself down
across the mountains
like a second world—
blue poured into stone.
No sermon here,
just light telling rock
what it already knows.
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What Was Once Grasslands Leave a comment
(In November of 2012, Tom Markey and I posted an article, Ecocide Arizona Style — The Cow That Ate The West.
The article was about the disappearing water in the San Simon Valley in southeast Arizona. This poem suggest the verdict is in.)
Ecocide Arizona Style
The west is dying of thirst.
You can hear it in the cracked riverbeds,
in cottonwoods gone skeletal,
in the silence where frogs used to sing.
The Colorado staggers,
a vein opened too long,
bled for lawns,
for swimming pools,
for another desert empire of cul-de-sacs.
This is not drought—
this is the verdict.
We were warned,
and we kept on building
as if the sky were infinite.
Mark it well:
when the last drop dries,
sand covers the southwest,
the desert will not mourn us.
It will simply
take itself back.
— kenne
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Caterpiller — Zerene Cesonia 3 comments
Zerene Cesonia Caterpillar — Photo-artistry by kenne
Morning in the desert garden:
a caterpillar clings to its stem,
eating with the steady rhythm
of breath itself.
Even the sun pauses—
as if it knows a butterfly
is practicing.
— kenne
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Sabino Sunrise 2 comments
Sabino Sunrise — Image by kenne
Dawn spills over the mountains
and the giants wake.
Their shadows stretch like old cowboys
after a long night.
No hurry.
No apology.
Just another day
outlasting us all.
— kenne
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They Arrive Without Announcement 2 comments
Cedar Waxwings Arrive Without Announcement — Image by kenne
Soft crests,
yellow-tipped tails—
a small northern fire.
We host them briefly.
The desert offers fruit,
water,
a resting branch.
Hospitality is an old law.
— kenne
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Cactus Art 2 comments
Cactus Art Image by kenne
A slight shift of angle—
the needles ignite.
So it is with the soul:
what guards the heart
can also shine.
— kenne
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A Sonoran Morning Leave a comment
A Sonoran Morning — Image by kenne
Bright sunlight, black tower, white sky.
The blades carve the morning into pieces.
Somewhere a tank fills,
somewhere a man believes
he has mastered this land.
But the wind owns the rhythm,
and the desert keeps the final say.
— kenne
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Soaptree Yacca Leave a comment
Soaptree Yacca — Image by kenne
Wind scrapes the flats raw.
The yucca holds its green knives
close to the bone of earth.
Bloom is rare.
That’s the point.
In this place
beauty is earned slowly.
— kenne
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Bee On Goldeneye Wildflower 2 comments
Bee On Goldeneye Wildflower — Image by kenne
Spring in the Sonoran—
a bee dives into Goldeneye,
pollen dusting its legs
like barrio chalk
on Sunday shoes.
Work is prayer here.
Work is survival.
— 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
