Riverbank Birds: Finding Wildness Along the City River

Riverbank Birds: Finding Wildness Along the City River · Jason · 2026-07-30 · riverbank birds, city wildlife, egrets, urban nature, birdwatching, river memory

This river winds through the city, and every kilometer or two there is a bridge. Some are said to be over a thousand years old; others were built just a few years ago. Cars stream across them, dense and unceasing, while the river flows beneath, heading somewhere far away. I like to walk along this river. About thirty years ago, both banks were natural riverbeds—dirty, really, and in summer the air always smelled foul. Later they were hardened into concrete embankments, landscaped with rows of ginkgo trees. By late autumn and early winter, the golden leaves had become one of the city's signature sights. But I still miss those wild, original riverbanks. In my memory, there was no concrete—just thick mud, soft underfoot, sometimes leaving a deep footprint. When the river swelled in summer, water would flood the low spots, and after it receded it left a fine layer of silt, cool and smooth against bare feet. The banks were overgrown with weeds and reeds, some tall, some short, rustling in the wind. There was a grass we called "dog's tail," its fuzzy spikelets that kids would pick to tickle each other's necks. What I remember most were the little crabs. They made their homes in crevices between stones, and at the sound of footsteps they would scuttle sideways into their holes. As a child I often crouched by the water, poking into those holes with a thin twig. If I was lucky, I'd coax out a crab no bigger than a fingernail, its gray-green shell and two tiny pincers waving in mock defiance. Sometimes I'd spot mudskippers, leaping about on the mudflat, too slippery to catch. The river wasn't clean back then, but the riverbank was alive. There were loaches, tadpoles, dragonflies skimming the surface, and egrets standing on one leg in the shallows. At dusk the sun would stain the river gold and red, turning it into a flowing ribbon of silk, and every blade of grass on the bank would catch that warm light. Now the riverbank is clean and quiet. The concrete railings are straight and uniform, the ginkgo trees planted in neat rows—pretty enough in autumn. But when I walk there, I feel something missing—the chaos and surprise of weeds, mud, and little creatures. The riverbank has been tamed, like a wild animal trimmed and groomed, gentle but lifeless. One thing, though, has become even more captivating than before: birdwatching. When the water is low, sandbars and rocky patches emerge near the center of the river, and they become the territory of herons and egrets. The most common is the little egret, pure white, its long neck curved in an elegant arc, standing motionless in the shallows like a porcelain figurine. When a small fish swims close, its neck shoots forward, the sharp beak plunges into the water, and when it lifts again, the fish is already thrashing in its grip. The grey heron is larger, a bit clumsier, but no less precise when hunting. Then there are night herons, who like to tuck their heads in and squat on branches overhanging the water, looking lazy, like an old man dozing. I've counted maybe seven or eight common species; some I can't name, so I give them nicknames based on color or size. They don't always get along. For a decent-sized loach, two little egrets will suddenly spread their wings, stretch out their long necks, and peck at each other, feathers flying, voices hoarse. The fight lasts a few minutes, and when it's over, the winner flies off with its prize while the loser slinks away to wait somewhere else. Sometimes I stand by the shore for half an hour just to watch one of these skirmishes. I remember once, a little egret caught a loach about half a foot long and was halfway through swallowing it when a grey heron charged in from the side to snatch it. The loach was slippery, bouncing between two beaks, and finally dropped into the water—neither bird got it. They glared at each other and then turned away. I couldn't help laughing, and a passerby walking his dog gave me a strange look. Birdwatching makes me feel that even though the riverbank has changed, the river's wildness hasn't completely disappeared. It hides beneath the water, among the reeds, in the wings and beaks of these birds. Maybe that's the price of urban development. We gain tidiness but lose that rough, wild beauty. I stand under the ginkgo trees, looking down at the paved ground, then lift my eyes to the sandbar where the egrets gather, and I know—those days of walking barefoot in the mud are gone forever. But at least these birds are still here, willing to stay. And maybe that's enough.