(Photo provided from Sacramento Audubon) Red tailed hawk.

Early Marietta

David B. Baker

April 7, 1788: 48 skilled craftsmen, surveyors, and excited adventurers arrive by flatboat at Marietta. It’s a misty cloudy morning; all on board strain to see the Muskingum River landing point. They overshoot. No problem; Fort Harmar soldiers rope them to shore. Excited chatter fills the air – they’ve finally made it! There’s a bustle of activity as they scramble ashore and unload gear to start a new town and much more.

Overhead an observer takes it all in. It’s quiet up there. This is more than just a boatload of workers arriving. This wilderness expanse will become five states with millions of people just a century later.

These verses by Judy Piersall, local historian, Castle Museum docent, and a direct descendant of Rufus Putnam, capture the spirit of this event. Thanks to Judy for sharing this poem to mark Marietta Founders Day.

(Photo provided by David McCullough) Flatboat like the one used by pioneers.

The Watcher

April 7, 1788

Judith C. Piersall

Soaring high, riding air currents,

A solitary hawk, circling, turning,

Ascending, descending.

He dives steeply, climbs again,

Surveying possibilities the two rivers offer.

At the confluence, the currents mingle,

Life-renewing waters, ever moving, ever changing,

Over the flow of time.

The breeze carries him. He drifts.

Something poised in the spring air,

The wind whispers a new promise,

Hope emerging from hard fought battles.

Misty bowers cloak the shoreline.

Pioneers drawing closer, journey’s end.

The air lightens, the sky brightens.

The fog lifts…

Unveiling vernal lands, abundant earth.

The river laps the bank, sloshing, splashing.

“Can this be the place?”

Hue and cry…voices lift in

Shouts of joy, shouts of triumph.

A found harbor,

Long sought, long planned.

Touch the bank! Travels fulfilled!

Land to build on, futures to realize,

Heights to reach, all these await

For these trailblazers, these pathfinders,

Coming as friends.

Sweeping low, keen to see,

Swooping on the river landing,

The hawk flies lower, heedful.

Instincts stirring, seeping through his bones,

With ease to divine, this spirit compelling,

He glides — sensing this moment rare,

A new beginning about to bud.

A piercing call, a raspy cry

Splits the air and fades away.

Rising up, above a crossroads in time,

His wings broad, his tail a burnished red,

Sacred feathers, climbing higher, spirit mounting,

He flies toward the west.