Some Wildlife
Ermine 1 "The Watcher in the Stone" Nestled deep where mosses cling, A flick of white, a silent wing The ermine waits in granite shade, A ghost of winter softly laid. Eyes like ink on parchment bright, Survey the world with quiet might. A monarch cloaked in frost and fur, No crown more regal could occur. The rocks, his ramparts, cold and gray, The lichen paths his courtly way. He does not speak, yet all things hush The wind, the leaf, the mountain thrush. What tales he guards beneath the stone, Of snowbound hunts and nights alone. Of fleeting steps on frozen ground, Where silence is the loudest sound. So pause, dear traveler, if you dare, And meet the gaze that holds the air. For in that stare, both fierce and shy, The wild still whispers, “I am nigh.”
Cubs first meal after nursing "First Feast" Beneath the wind’s low Arctic hymn, Where ice meets stone in twilight dim, Three shadows stir on crimson slate A mother, and her cubs of late. No longer suckled, soft and warm, They meet the seal, the ancient form Of life exchanged in blood and breath Lesson carved in tooth and death. Mother waits, her silence stern, While cubs with trembling hunger learn To tear, to taste, to understand The price of life in this cold land. Their coats still plush with youth’s disguise, Yet hunger flickers in their eyes A glint of wildness, raw and true, The birth of bear from milk to rue. They do not mourn, they do not pray, They eat as stars begin to sway. And in the hush, the rocks bear witness: The cubs have crossed into the wilderness.
"Winter Claim" A hush of snow along the stream, Where ice and silence softly gleam, The coyote stands with primal grace, A shard of life clenched in its face. No audience but wind and pine, No mercy in this frozen shrine, Its amber eyes, alert and lean, Reflect the hunger winter means. The river stirs with icy breath, A whisper threading life and death, Yet in this bite, this crimson prize, Survival wears no thin disguise. No crown, no throne, no gilded fame; Just snow, and meat, and nature’s claim. A fleeting feast beneath the sky, Where wild things live, and wild things die.
Two coyotes in the quiet snow, unhurried in the morning glow. Side by side in winter’s chill, just being wild, just being still.
Winter lays its claim in silence, bison hold steady like monuments of muscle and frost, while coyotes drift at the edges; clever scavengers reading every shadow, seeking what food the cold might surrender.
Rare Silver Fox 2 “The Watcher in the Pines” In twilight hush where moss roots cling, A shadow stirs with silver wing Not bird, but beast with ember eyes, A fox where dusk and mystery lie. His coat, a cloak of midnight spun, With threads of frost from fallen sun, A tail-tip dipped in winter’s breath, A whisper soft as forest death. He sits, not hunted, not the chase, But sovereign of this quiet place. No rustle breaks his measured still, No hunger mars his patient will. The trees lean in with reverence bowed, The wind retreats, the sky unclouds. For in this glade, the world holds tight To one rare glimpse of living night. So pass him not with hurried tread, Nor mark him just by fur or head He is the pause, the breath between, The silver thread in forest green.
Emerging from still, murky waters, the alligator in this photo exudes an eerie, primal calm. With its scaly head barely breaking the water's surface, the animal’s piercing eye becomes the focal point—sharp, alert, and unblinking. The skin is textured with ancient, armored ridges, glistening in the filtered light, a testament to its evolutionary perfection. The surrounding environment fades into a dreamy blur of muted greens and browns, suggesting a swamp or slow-moving river cloaked in foliage. The lighting is masterful—casting a delicate sheen across the reptile’s head and creating mirror-like reflections on the water’s surface. It speaks to the creature’s stealth, its ability to become nearly invisible in its element. There’s no drama, no movement—just the silent intensity of a predator waiting for the perfect moment. This image doesn’t scream for attention; it whispers about power, patience, and the artistry of camouflage. It's a portrait of quiet menace and graceful survival.
Two elk in Grand Teton
Orphan Sea Lion we were able to rescue, California
Curious young Fox checking us out, Utah
Beaver in Grand Teton
Buffalo in Grand Teton
Black Bear in Shenandoah Valley, needed to herd him.
Attentive Buck, Utah
Buffalo in South Dakota
Buffalo herd with Black Hills in Background
Buffalo with Calf in South Dakota
Buffalo Herd
Buffalo calf with parents in South Dakota
Chipmunk in Colorado
Gaunt Coyote in Utah
Coyote
Largest Coyote I've ever encountered, California
Coyote hunting mice
Coyote in evening light
Deer in Arizona
Buck in Utah
Desert Big Horn Sheep watering on Paria, Utah
Desert Big Horn Sheep
Desert Big Horn Sheep near the Wave in Arizona
Desert Big Horn Sheep, Arizona
Big Horn Buck, Desert, Utah
Herd Big Horn Desert Sheep, Utah
Desert Big Horn Sheep, Cottonwood Canyon
Desert Big Horn Sheep, Utah
Desert Big Horn Sheep checking us out, Utah
Relaxed Desert Big Horn Sheep, Zion
Dolphin, Channel Islands
Dolphins, Paddle Boarder with Channel Islands in background
Dolphins, Paddle Boarder and Fishing Boat
Elk, Grand Teton
Elk in Grand Teton giving us the once over
Elk with nice Rack, Grand Teton
Elk grazing in Grand Teton
Impressive Elk, Grand Teton
Elk in Grand Teton, large rack
Golpher, Arizona
Ground Squirrel, Shenandoah Valley
Squirrel, Colorado
Ground Squirrel, Colorado
Channel Island Fox
Coyote
Otter, Wyoming
Several Otters, Grand Teton
Gopher, Devil's Tower, Wyoming
Pronghorn, Utah
Herd, Pronghorns, Utah
Pair of Pronghorns, Utah
Sea Lion, California
Sea Lion, California
Sea Lions resting on buoy, California
Whale, Channel Islands
Whale, Pacific Ocean
Black Bear, North Carolina
Black Bear, North Carolina
Deer with Fawn, Tennessee
Fawn, Tennessee
Buffalo, Grand Teton
Doe and her fawn in Lost Coast cemetery, California
Determined Squirrel, Virginia
Ermine 2 "The Watcher in the Stone" Nestled deep where mosses cling, A flick of white, a silent wing The ermine waits in granite shade, A ghost of winter softly laid. Eyes like ink on parchment bright, Survey the world with quiet might. A monarch cloaked in frost and fur, No crown more regal could occur. The rocks, his ramparts, cold and gray, The lichen paths his courtly way. He does not speak, yet all things hush The wind, the leaf, the mountain thrush. What tales he guards beneath the stone, Of snowbound hunts and nights alone. Of fleeting steps on frozen ground, Where silence is the loudest sound. So pause, dear traveler, if you dare, And meet the gaze that holds the air. For in that stare, both fierce and shy, The wild still whispers, “I am nigh.”
Polar Bear and Cubs in evening light "White Silence" In the hush of northern light, where moss clings low and winds take flight, a mother walks with solemn grace three shadows stitched in a tundra space. Her coat, a cloak of ancient snow, knows every drift, each undertow. She leads them past the lichen's blush, through twilight's breath and tundra's hush. The cubs, like echoes soft and round, pad gently on the frostbit ground. Their eyes are wide with wonder's flame, yet tethered close to her domain. She does not speak, but every stride is lullaby and shield and guide. The trees stand watch, the lake lies still a world held fast by quiet will. And though the cold may bite and roam, within her steps, they carry home. A bond not forged in words or fire, but in the pulse of fierce desire To guard, to teach, to simply be the warmth beneath infinity.
Polar Bear and shipwreck Ithaca “The Bear Who Waits at Ithaca” He does not pace, nor roar, nor flee Our monarch of the northern lee. He lies where sea meets rusted bone, On throne of stone, he reigns alone. The Ithaca behind him groans, Its hull a hymn of human loss. But bear, unbothered by the tones, Feels only wind and lichen moss. Eyes are deep, untroubled wells, No need for maps, no need for sails. The world comes and goes in waves He stays, while time itself unravels. No crown but wish for snow upon his brow, No court but gulls that circle slow. He rules what man forgot to vow Quiet where the wild things go. Though the ship may speak of wreck, Of greed, of reach, of rusted deck, The bear remains, a breathing myth, A truth untouched by human death. So let the sky stay blue or gray, Let tides erase what men betray Our bear will watch, will sleep, will rise, A sentinel beneath the skies.
Polar Bear and cubs stroll tidal flats "Tidewalkers" They walk the edge where silence swells, between the sea’s deep-breathing spells and tundra’s hush, a shifting seam of salt and ice and half-formed dream. The mother leads with weightless tread, her paws imprinting what’s unsaid. Behind, two cubs in mimic pace, still learning how to read this place. No roar, no rush just wind and wave, the kind of calm the wild things crave. Each step a vow, each glance a thread to stitch the living from the dead. The ocean hums a distant song, of melting paths and days grown short. But still they walk, as bears have done, beneath the low and northern sun. And in their gait, a quiet plea not for our pity, but to see: That grace is not in grand display, but in the will to stay, and stay.
Polar Bear and Silhouette at Sunrise “Sentinel of the Dawn” Upon the edge of rock and flame, A shadow stirs, yet speaks no name. The polar bear, in silence crowned, Stands where sky and earth are bound. Its breath, a whisper in the cold, Its stance, both ancient and bold. The sun spills gold across the rock, A fire the bear will never know. Yet still it watches, still it waits, Beyond the reach of human fates. A monarch carved in morning light, Between the fading stars and night. No roar, no rush, no need to flee Just presence, vast as memory. A creature born of frost and grace, Now haloed in this burning place.
Mother Polar Bear defends her food from Male Whose Meal Is This; This is not a greeting. This is arctic law. The mouth opens not to speak, but to stake. Teeth glint like broken glaciers snarl carved from centuries of hunger. The nuzzle is no kiss. It’s a measure. A test of weight, of will, of whether the other will flinch. One bear stands. The other dares. Between them, the rocks hold breath. The sea waits for blood or retreat. This is the Arctic’s grammar: No metaphors. Only muscle, ice, and the echo of a growl. So whose meal is this? Ask again, when the silence breaks.
"Ptarmigan" Stone still, yet never stone, the ptarmigan sits alone a feathered hush on granite throne, half winter ghost, half autumn tone. Name, a whisper lost in snow, Syllables the cold winds know. Not falcon, not dove, not songbird bright, but dusk in motion, dressed in white. Brown flecks like embers barely cooled, a camouflage the tundra schooled. It wears the seasons like a creed, a quiet vow, a subtle need. No cry to claim the sky or sea, just presence, poised in mystery. A sentinel of shifting days, who walks the edge in muted praise. So let the eagle chase the sun, and let the ravens croak and run the ptarmigan, with silent grace, will hold the stillness in its place.
Ptarmigan 2 "Ptarmigan" Stone still, yet never stone, the ptarmigan sits alone a feathered hush on granite throne, half winter ghost, half autumn tone. Name, a whisper lost in snow, Syllables the cold winds know. Not falcon, not dove, not songbird bright, but dusk in motion, dressed in white. Brown flecks like embers barely cooled, a camouflage the tundra schooled. It wears the seasons like a creed, a quiet vow, a subtle need. No cry to claim the sky or sea, just presence, poised in mystery. A sentinel of shifting days, who walks the edge in muted praise. So let the eagle chase the sun, and let the ravens croak and run the ptarmigan, with silent grace, will hold the stillness in its place.
Rare Silver Fox “The Watcher in the Pines” In twilight hush where moss roots cling, A shadow stirs with silver wing Not bird, but beast with ember eyes, A fox where dusk and mystery lie. His coat, a cloak of midnight spun, With threads of frost from fallen sun, A tail-tip dipped in winter’s breath, A whisper soft as forest death. He sits, not hunted, not the chase, But sovereign of this quiet place. No rustle breaks his measured still, No hunger mars his patient will. The trees lean in with reverence bowed, The wind retreats, the sky unclouds. For in this glade, the world holds tight To one rare glimpse of living night. So pass him not with hurried tread, Nor mark him just by fur or head He is the pause, the breath between, The silver thread in forest green.
Last month, while revisiting some of our old stomping grounds in southern Utah, we had an unforgettable encounter on Cottonwood Road; a family of four badgers out for a stroll. It was my first time seeing badgers in the wild, and they absolutely lived up to their reputation. The mother and two youngsters vanished into the underbrush in seconds, but the male stood his ground. Even from 50+ feet away, he kept charging at the car, fearless and determined. At one point he was literally nose‑to‑nose with the grill.
In the hush of winter’s breath, a lone coyote stands against the snow; fur brushed with dusk, eyes bright as ember pine. He pauses, tasting the cold on his tongue, as if savoring the quiet between heartbeats. Around him, the world holds still, listening to the soft rhythm of a creature built for survival and wonder. A moment caught wild, unhurried.