Life in the river isn’t what it used to be. I remember when the water sparkled, when fish zipped through the reeds and dragonflies buzzed above our heads like tiny helicopters. Back then, my brothers and I played chase through the lily pads until Mum called us in for grubs.

That was before the machines came. Now the river smells like metal. The water’s cloudy, and most of the fish are gone. Even the mud feels wrong, too warm and sticky, like it’s turned into glue.

It started last summer. A loud rumble echoed through the trees and the ground trembled beneath my feet. I peeked over the bank and saw giant yellow machines tearing through the forest. Trees crashed like thunder. Birds flew off in flocks, squawking in panic. We stayed hidden for hours.

Mum says not to go near that side of the river anymore. But I’m twelve now. Not a baby puggle. I want to understand. So, this morning, while everyone was still asleep, I snuck off. I swam past the bend, my heart beating like when the big yellow machines cut down a tree. It was worse than I imagined.

The trees were gone, just stumps and piles of broken branches. The water barely moved. Rubbish floated in patches, wrappers, plastic rings, things that don’t belong. An empty turtle shell lay on the shore. I felt sad and disappointed. I was about to turn back when I heard a rustle. A kookaburra sat on a tree stump, staring at me.

“You shouldn’t be here,” he said.

“I know,” I whispered.

Back home, I couldn’t stop thinking about it. So, I started picking up the rubbish. One bottle. Two wrappers. A shiny thing that smelled like oil. I dragged them to a hollow log near our den and made a pile.

“Pippa, what are you doing?” Noah asked. He’s only six.

“Cleaning,” I said. “Maybe the humans will notice. Maybe they’ll stop.”

Noah helped me gather a wet piece of paper. “You think it will work?”

I didn’t answer. I didn’t know.

That night, as we curled up in our burrow, I stared at the river through the entrance. A patch of moonlight lit up the surface. It looked like the old days, just for a second. I held on to that.

Even if the machines don’t stop and the water doesn’t become clear, I won’t give up. Not on my river. Not in our home. Tomorrow, I’ll go back. I’ll clean a little more. Maybe plant a seed. Maybe make a sign.

Maybe someone will care.