It’s June, so there are lots of babies. Baby rabbits, nibbling on the gardens and driving the dogs crazy. Baby ducks, gathered closely around their mothers. Baby geese, joining the honking, pooping herds in the meadows.

This year, a pair of swans nested at the confluence of our town’s river with a small stream. They spent weeks building up the nest, bending their long necks to scoop dead leaves and twigs into a pile that rose a couple of feet higher than the river surface. Once the eggs were laid, the pair took turns sitting on them. The one swimming around and noshing was on patrol. If a duck or goose or dog came too close to the nest, there would be a great loud flapping of wings, and the intruder would leave in a hurry.

Now there are four fluffy little baby swans, cygnets, visible on royal cruises with one parent ahead and one behind. Nobody messes with the swans. They can fly, but they don’t have to.

I watch the adults learn how to co-parent. Swan #1 swims quickly under the bridge, minus offspring, and then flaps its wings and rushes up the bank, rousts Swan #2 from its resting place in the brush, then swims back down the river in a big hurry. Swan #2 scrabbles down the bank, calling out this really loud noise that starts with a squeal and ends with a honk. It swims around a moment, stretching its wings and neck, and then follows Swan #1 under the bridge. A couple minutes later, here comes one of the swans with babies close behind it. I think that was a shift change and Swan #2 was yelling “Okay, I’ll be there in a minute, let me finish my coffee!”

Several years ago, the government rebuilt the old dam between the lakes our river flows through, complete with a modern fish ladder. Thanks to the ladder, the dwindling stock of alewife – a small herring-like fish that breeds here – has rebounded. The state estimates that their population has gone from 200,000 to more than 700,000.

Black-crowned night herons come for the spawning run of alewife every spring. At night, they pick a local tree to roost in, crowding the branches like big ripe fruit. The great blue and little green herons also enjoy the alewife. They’re so full, they often stop fishing to stand around and nap.

Since the state closed storm sewer overflow pipes, the painted turtles have also rebounded. They bask in family rows on riverside logs and driftwood every sunny morning, lined up by size from large to very little. When danger approaches, they plop into the water one by one, with the biggest the last to go and the first to re-emerge.

The other big change on the river is the traffic. We used to get motorboats and jet skis going much too fast, leaving wakes that eroded the banks. Then a canoe and kayak rental place opened up. During the pandemic, boating has been a great way to have some safe family fun, or just to get outside without a mask. The river is full of these little boats on every nice weekend. Although the herons don’t like being in the public eye, they haven’t gone far.

There are two big upsides to this new kind of traffic. One is that the motorboats have slowed way down. With so many kayaks, a speeding boat might run somebody over. I suspect that the boat club lawyer sent a memo.

The other upside is that now the river is known and loved by many more people. Some are bound to join the community that defends the river. The water and its woodsy banks are always in danger from pollution, garbage, and invasive species. Our wild, or wildish, places need all the friends they can get.

People have plied these waters in canoes for centuries or longer. Until this past century, the river ran through woods and swamps. Now there’s only a narrow green strip on either side of it, trees and shrubs growing thickly up the steep banks. Beyond that, in most places, small grassy areas lie between the river and the streets, houses, and shops of our town. Nothing much lives in the grass besides ticks and field mice.

The river shows many signs of abuse and neglect. Plastic water bottles and other trash get stuck in the driftwood. Lack of maintenance on the walking paths has exposed the roots of riverside trees that keep the paths from washing into the water. Maintenance and oversight are the easiest things to cut from state and city budgets.

But what a rich variety of life still manages to thrive in the river and those two narrow strips of green. Water lilies by the thousand open their fragrant white petals; small-mouth bass nestle in the reeds; dragonflies dart and hover. Once I saw an otter, undulating at the surface like a broad brown velvet ribbon.

Humans also thrive along this water. People walk, run, bike, watch birds, have picnics. A woman dances along to the music on her headset. Nobody can calculate the river’s physical, mental, and social benefits to our community. Recently, plastic lawn chairs have appeared in a few choice sitting spots. Some walkers bring bags with them to pick up litter.

This is a beautiful world. Maybe we’re learning to stop our trashy ways and cherish it. If so, it won’t be a moment too soon.