Christmas week was an astonishing week in Maple Springs. Because the lake was mostly frozen, the tundra swans gathered in open water here, along with Canada geese and a variety of ducks and other water birds, to feed on plants and mussels. Their squawking, honking, whistling and chatter carried across the still waters as flocks paused to feed and gather strength to continue their great southward migration.

My husband, Jeff, and I walk the lakefront regularly with our dog, Henry, although we tend to avoid it on windy days because it’s cold, and because Henry doesn’t like the way the wind lifts his fur. Henry doesn’t seem to notice the birds much, but Jeff and I are enthralled when there is such a great gathering. One day we stood for a long time watching the birds after they settled to our presence. The ducks are the most skittish and take off at the slightest movement, but soon circle back to join the rest of the flotilla hugging the shoreline.

As the temperature dropped early in the week, there was more movement. Noisy groups of swans were taking off, landing, seeming to share the news. We could hear them from our porch, even though we’re a couple of houses off the lake, and if we listened carefully, we could hear them from inside the house. We turned off the Christmas carols to listen. Their sounds are singular and unforgettable.

By midweek temperatures had climbed, and one day we were socked in with fog. The walk was eerie and quiet. From the road, we could barely see the lakefront six feet in front of us, when usually we can see across the lake and make out the Miller Bell Tower on the grounds of the Chautauqua Institution. The fog carried muffled sounds of the swans as they quietly fed, although they were invisible to us. We could hear them splash and ruffle their feathers, and occasionally make the distinctive vocalizations that signify their presence.

The arrival of the swans on Chautauqua Lake is always a thrill. They stop to rest and to feed in the spring on their way to their breeding grounds in Canada and the Arctic, and spend time here in the late fall before they move on to their wintering areas on the Potomac River and Chesapeake Bay.

A group of swans is a flock, but can also be referred to as a “bevy” or a “game.” In flight, they are a “wedge.” They vocalize overhead as they take off or come in for a landing. When they land, they might join a “bunch,” or a “knob,” or a “raft” of other waterfowl. In flight, they shine like silver in the sun, their whiteness blazing against the winter white skies.

I love these names for swans and for other birds. Since the beginning of language, people have tried to describe the beauty of the natural world. Swans are etched in our language, and in our literature, music and dance. They are part of our humanity.

I couldn’t watch them this year without thinking about their future, and ours. The swans are eating plants and mollusks from Chautauqua Lake as we wrestle with what to do about harmful algae blooms and weed overgrowth, and as we struggle to suss out the benefits and impact of herbicides, weed harvesting, and the other things we are doing to make the lake more attractive and to preserve its health.

A couple of months ago, Science Magazine reported that 80 percent of Germany’s flying insect population has disappeared in the last 25 years. As I read the piece, I remembered having to pull my car over frequently not so many years ago to fill up with gas — and to wash the bugs off of my windshield. When I was younger, the grille of my car was plastered with crushed and smashed bugs – the ordinary consequences of driving a car at high speeds.

The bugs no longer gunk up our windshields because the bugs aren’t here anymore.

Bee populations are down, too, and monarch butterflies, and lightning bugs. Populations of insect-eating birds – larks, swallows and swifts – are also dwindling in some places.

Although scientists involved in the insect study can’t draw specific conclusions about the reasons for the insect decline from the information available, some believe that the constant use of agricultural and residential pesticides, herbicides and fertilizers is responsible.

Which brings me back to our lake. I’m not a scientist, and I’m certainly no expert on lake management. I don’t know what the answer is, but I know it’s important to get it right. I’m as upset about the algal blooms and the stinky weeds in the lake as anyone else. I’m also upset about how quickly the decision was made to apply herbicides in Bemus Bay, and by some of the criticism that has been levied against the local organizations that have been trying to help with these problems for a long time.

It’s a good thing that the health and beauty of the lake have risen to a higher priority, and I suppose some conflict is to be expected. I was happy to read Chautauqua Lake has been selected as one of the possible lakes to include in New York State’s efforts to fight harmful algal blooms. We need our elected officials, government agencies and local organizations to use the certainties of science-based knowledge and techniques to improve the lake.

We share it with so many others.

I want our leaders to take a long and measured view and do the best things, not just the quickest or most convenient things. I want them to adopt a philosophy like the Iroquois’ principle of seven generation stewardship, and weigh the impact of their decisions on our grandchildren and their children seven generations down the line.

I want them to remember their own gunky windshields, now clean, and the impact and consequences these looming decisions can have, even if they’re unintended.

I want them to think of the swans.

Beth Peyton’s first book, Clear Skies, Deep Water: A Chautauqua Memoir, was published by SUNY Press in 2014. She holds a bachelor of science degree in Social Justice from Montana State University, and received her MFA in Creative Nonfiction from Carlow University, where she studied in Pittsburgh and Ireland. She lives in Western New York with her husband, Jeff Hunter.