Essays, Art and Plays by Dan

Most folks don’t quite know what to make of me—an old man sitting under a lamppost with a bundle of wind chimes and a paper cup that says Tips Appreciated.

Some smile. Most hurry past. A few stop, tilt their heads, and really listen. Those are my people.

I don’t just hang up wind chimes. I play them—or maybe they play me.

Folks think the wind makes random noise, but after all these years I’ve learned the truth: the wind is a musician.

March is her favorite month. She comes roaring through the streets—bold, unpredictable, full of feeling.

She tosses my chimes around, and every clatter becomes a kind of prayer.

A poet once wrote:

march winds
the chaotic sound
of wind chimes

But that’s not chaos. That’s creation still happening.

I started busking after my harmonica rusted in the Virginia rain. I built my first set of chimes from scraps—copper pipe, glass shards, a diner spoon.

When the wind hit them, they sang. Not perfectly, but honestly. That was enough.

Now I set up wherever the air moves—street corners, parks, riverbanks—and let the wind choose the song.

At my age, I don’t chase applause. I play for the sound, for the brief peace it brings.

And when the wind blows just right through my chimes, I swear—for one shining moment—the whole world sounds like it’s singing again.

——————————-

If you would like to support my writing and art with a $5.00 donation, please do so at: https://ko-fi.com/daniel2025.