Essays, Art and Plays by Dan

Title: My First Stage Was a Picnic Table (and Three Crows Stayed for the Whole Show)

Let me tell you about the first time I played music in public.

No big crowd.
No lights. No mic.
Just me, a harmonica, and a weathered picnic table in Fort Hunt Park, Alexandria, Virginia.

It was one of those quiet afternoons when the sun filters gently through the trees and the world feels a little slower. I had my folding stool, my harmonica case, and a heart full of nerves. I wasn’t sure if anyone would listen. Honestly, I wasn’t even sure if I’d have the nerve to play.

But I set up anyway. Took a breath. And started.

The first song I played was “You Are My Sunshine.” The kind of song that feels like a warm memory—something soft and familiar, even when it’s wrapped in a bluesy harmonica wail. My hands were a little shaky, but I kept going, letting the melody spill out into the open air.

That’s when I noticed them:
Three crows.

They had perched on a nearby fence like tiny critics with feathers, and they stayed—head tilts, full attention, like they were genuinely listening. They didn’t fly off at the sound. They didn’t caw or flap or fuss. They just sat there… and listened.

So I played on.
Next up: “Que Sera, Sera.”
A song about surrendering to whatever life has in store—fitting, considering my first gig was basically a private concert for birds.

A few humans passed by—a jogger, a couple walking a dog—but it was the crows who stayed from start to finish. My loyal feathered audience. And somehow, that was enough.

That moment made me realize: I don’t need a stage or a crowd to feel the power of music. I just need a place to play and an open heart to share it.

There’s something beautiful about performing in the open, where anything can happen and anyone—or anything—might stop to listen. Whether it’s a small child with a juice box, a stranger on a park bench, or yes… three thoughtful crows… music makes room for connection. Even if it’s wordless. Even if it’s unexpected.

That first performance didn’t come with applause, but it came with presence. With rhythm and stillness and the quiet reminder that offering something real to the world—no matter how small—is always worth it.

So yeah. My debut audience had wings and shiny black eyes.
They listened to the whole show.
And that, to me, was the perfect beginning.