They saw it through sunglasses, cell phones and professional cameras. They wore work clothes, street clothes and Guardians gear. At one makeshift merchandise stand downtown, eclipse t-shirts were going for $25 per tee.

On Cleveland’s Public Square, the air chilled, the sunlight on the skyscrapers turned a dusty gray and a cloak of darkness swooped in from the northwest. Then: night. Astonished cheers washed over the square. A black disc, ringed by a halo and tiny fingers of flame, hung in the sky between Terminal Tower and the Sherwin-Williams building.

The event was so otherworldly that witnesses mustered mostly platitudes to describe it. “Awesome.” “Spectacular.” A “life experience.” What else could you say? 

The kids had ideas. Before totality, as the moon nudged up in front of the sun, one girl said the cosmic alignment looked like a “tiny little pinky toenail.” Another, 12-year-old Corrina Schriver, picked out something else in the sudden dusk: “We could see a planet,” she said. 

Cleveland prepared for people from all over this planet to arrive on the Lake Erie shore. A modest crowd of eclipse-watchers tailgated at the Muni Lot, and many others assembled at the Great Lakes Science Center. 

But for those who couldn’t make the trip, it paid to have friends and family in the path of the moon’s shadow. From Public Square, Jayda Ellis started up a video call with her sister, who works at a bank in Mobile, Ala., so that she wouldn’t miss the moment. 

Two seasoned activists, Don Bryant and Brian Mallory, along with others, seized the moment for a display of their own. They hauled a projector to Public Square – one that easily could be mistaken for a portable telescope – to flash a message on the side of the Terminal Tower protesting the war in Gaza: “Not 1 more f’n bomb for Israel.” It was unclear how many people took notice. Police chatted with them afterward and took down their information, but did not issue a ticket, Bryant said. 

Cleveland got the 400-year eclipse it wanted. Early warnings of gloom proved to be harmless. The morning’s dome of clouds drifted away to the east. The feared and foretold doomsday traffic snarl did not materialize downtown.

Erik Drost, who set up three cameras on tripods at the corner of Euclid Avenue and East Roadway, snapped the shots he had waited since 10 a.m. to capture. He held up his phone to display his quarry. Drost had found the perfect angle: the moon eclipsing the sun at the very top of the Terminal Tower’s flagpole. 

“It worked out,” he said.