Survival in the Plastic Age
Time softened when I lifted the lens. The wind paused, or perhaps it only felt that way, suspended beneath the weight of something unseen. Above, in their cathedral of tangled matter, the osprey pair existed, present not as subjects but as a pulse of the earth itself. The male stared into the distance, scanning some horizon I couldn’t name. But she, the female, turned toward me.
And everything else unraveled.
Her gaze wasn’t a glance, it was a crossing. A thread pulled tight between us, invisible and unbreakable. She looked through the glass, through the air, through me. In that moment, I was not Photographer, nor Witness, nor Human. I was just a question, and she was the answer I wasn’t ready to hear.
She spoke without motion, without sound. Not with pity, nor protest. Her eyes held something older than grief, more patient than anger. They held the understanding of species that have endured all manner of storms. You found me, she seemed to say. Now, what will you do with this finding?
The nest—her stage, her cradle—was stitched from what the world discarded. Bone and bramble, yes. But also the detritus of convenience: colored threads, a mesh of plastic, and synthetic remains of our forgetfulness. And yet, it stood. Not beautiful by design, but beautiful because it held.
There was no plea in her stare. There was only instruction. Remember this. Translate it. Let it become something more than observation. But do not come closer. This space is not yours to breach.
It felt holy, almost. Her command. A boundary spoken in the quiet language of restraint. And in it, the paradox: connection made by the acknowledgment of distance.
I stood in the blur between reverence and responsibility, between admiration and guilt. Wanting to reach, to help, to apologize. But none of that was asked of me. Only this: Hold the moment. Carry it carefully. Speak, so I do not have to.
She turned away then, and the thread loosened, but did not break.
And I am still holding it.
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