1776 at the Marsh

by Jonathan Shipley

It’s July 4, 1776, at the marsh. The only fireworks were the stars in the night sky before dawn. The only bugling is from trumpeter swans paddling on the water. The only drumming is a pileated woodpecker hammering a tree. The only picnics are elk feasting on bluegrass, clover, willow.

Elsewhere, Americans colonists in the east are divided, some seeking independence, others swearing loyalty to the crown. In Philadelphia, residents are lifting pints at the Tun Tavern. Laborers are working the waterfront, the smell of tar and molasses and fish permeating the air. Merchants are walking the cobblestone streets past the Graff House, where one Thomas Jefferson had recently drafted a declaration.

A mink at the marsh knows nothing of such things. The muskrat, too, is oblivious, industrious along the shoreline. In the water, perch plunge in the shallows. Sunfish glide under the sunlight. Turtles laze on logs. Great Blue Herons roost in bur oak snags.

The die is cast. The war with Great Britain has reached a new crescendo. The Continental Congress has voted for independence from the King.

At the marsh, kingfishers still command from their perches on fallen logs. They dart over the water and dive deep for prey. Nearby, prairie chickens make their way through switchgrass and white wild indigo, blazing stars, and wild bergamot.

Benjamin Franklin is stepping out of the Pennsylvania State House (now known as Independence Hall). It’s a bit hot, and his gout is acting up.

At the marsh, sandhill cranes lift into the sky, calling out to the blue. Wolves are in the shades. Bears lumber in the timber: silver maples, black willow, bur oaks.

Philadelphians are anxious and anticipatory. The port remains open, and the city keeps on with the clang and clatter of commerce. Dockers are unloading cargo. Shoppers are on High Street. Butchers butcher. Farmers sell produce. The sailors along the river are repairing ships.

At the marsh, Ho-Chunk men set nets, check weirs, canoe between fishing spots. Women at the nearby village are tending their gardens of corn, beans, squash. Children splash and swim in the water or pick berries, fistfuls in their purple-stained mouths.

It’s July 4, 1776, at the marsh. A new nation is taking tenuous form a thousand miles away. But here, at the marsh, there is only the red of a cardinal’s wing, the white of a yarrow bloom, and the blue of the water. And, above it all, a crow calls merrily, “Ca-Ca-Ca!’