Maybe I am getting cranky.
That’s entirely possible.
There’s a certain stage in life where your tolerance for nonsense drops somewhere between “low” and “are you kidding me?” And yet, I don’t think that’s what this is.
This feels different.
This feels like disappointment.
I was out along the Narrow River—one of those mornings where the light is so clean it feels like it’s been filtered through something divine. The kind of morning where even the grasses seem to stand a little taller, as if they know they’re being admired.
I had a plan.
Dangerous words.
The 800mm was already doing its thing, but I decided to push it—added a teleconverter and stretched it out to 1000mm. If you’re going to admire something, you might as well really admire it.
And there they were.
Two ospreys.
Perched.
Majestic.
Unbothered by me. (As they should be.)
Click.
Tack sharp. Everything you hope for in a wildlife image.
And then…
There it was.
Not subtle.
Not hidden.
Not even trying to pretend it belonged.
Plastic. Debris. Human leftovers—woven right into the architecture of something that has been building nests long before we figured out how to package a sandwich in three layers of regret.
The osprey didn’t put that there.
We did.
Now here’s the part I don’t understand.
People come to places like this because they are special.
You don’t accidentally end up at the Narrow River, or a wildlife refuge, or a quiet stretch of beach at sunrise. These places are chosen.
Which begs the question…
If it’s special enough to visit, why isn’t it special enough to protect?
On the way back, I saw the can.
Perfectly balanced on top of a post like some sort of modern art installation titled:
“I Was Here. I Didn’t Care.”
And I’ll admit it…
I wished I had seen the person who left it there.
Camera ready.
Click.
Would I post it?
Without hesitation.
Not out of cruelty.
Out of accountability.
Because here’s what I kept thinking about…
That tiny island off Scotland—Eigg.**
A place where people behave not because they’re afraid of getting caught, but because they’re afraid of letting each other down.
Imagine that.
No signs.
No fines.
No lectures.
Just this quiet understanding:
This is ours.
Don’t ruin it.
We don’t need to live on an island to think like that.
We just need to care like we do.
Because pride in a community isn’t a slogan.
It’s a behavior.
It’s what happens when you pick something up that isn’t yours—because it is yours.
It’s what keeps your dog leashed near nesting birds—not because someone told you to, but because you understand what’s at stake.
It’s what makes you look at a piece of trash and think, “Not here. Not on my watch.”
The ospreys will keep building.
That’s what they do.
The question is…
What are we building?
A place people respect?
Or a place they pass through?
So let the word go out.
You litter—click.
You let your dog tear through a nesting area—click.
Not for punishment.
For remembrance.
Because sometimes the most powerful thing we can feel…
is the quiet weight of knowing we could have done better—
and the pride that comes when we do.
**The Eigg story aired on 60 Minutes (2017, with follow-up online features), and it highlighted one of the most unusual communities in the modern world. The natural beauty is breathtaking. Here’s the link: https://youtu.be/FwShXyEHW7I
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