What were vivid pink tulips have faded to mauve and the once-spectacular fritillaria, now a scraggly stalk and crown, stands high above the ground cover with nothing to show.  Bleeding heart and something like a bottle brush shrub fill out behind the benches.  Wisteria blooms behind the north pergola; it’s thrown itself over the wall toward the bridal path below.  Just past the Information Booth, a patch of white trillium has appeared, and, following the path to Cherry Hill, another trillium, this one wine red, has bloomed in the deep shade.

The chestnuts trees in Strawberry Fields are covered with flowers, pointing heavenward like candles on a Christmas tree.  I spotted a bearded oak for the first time (who knew?).  Sakura cherry trees carpet the lawns beneath them with pink petals, each, according to Japanese lore, the soul of a samurai.

The Italian accordion player sat on the southern rim of the fountain; I set up at the east-northeast, where I could still hear when I wasn’t playing.  So I played.

Bethesda Fountain was not very busy.  After 15 minutes, a couple off the bench gave me a dollar.  A family from Vienna stopped to listen; Vater sent his 5-year-old daughter, Lillianne, to me with 3 quarters.  I directed her to my case, and picked up a lei for her.  “Wilst du tanzen?”

Lillianne would not tanz, but the next little girl, she from France, gave it a try, for which I got a dollar.  Passersby helped fill the case, especially a number of teenagers who tossed in coins.  A couple who had been sitting near me at the fountain, gave me $2 when they got up to leave.  A Chinese woman took my picture and placed a dollar and change in my case.

As it got later, lunch over, the crowd thinned.  I took the opportunity to try out a new song, “North Dakota, South Dakota,” which I’d worked out over the winter after hearing Jerry Lewis sing it.  As I finished, a man of 50 or so walked briskly past me.  “Bet you never heard that one before.”

He kept walking, then turned and came back.  “Gotta tip the busker,” he said, reaching for his wallet.  He was from Atlanta and played the trumpet, but couldn’t make a living at it.

About this time a scraggly old man with a radio playing loud latin music walked into the plaza and sat down near the lake.  I wanted to ask him to turn it down, but decided that if he hadn’t thought of that himself, there was a chance he was as crazy as he looked.  The accordion was gone, so I moved away from him for the last 30 minutes of my session.

Five teenagers were sitting on the bench, chatting, playing with their phones, and occasionally standing up to dance to my music.  They eventually made their way to me.  The leaders were a slight, tattooed girl from Romania, and a heavier girl from Indiana.  I turned to greet a short, clean-cut boy from Montenegro and a tall blonde boy from Latvia.  The last kid was from Indiana too.  At the end of the dance, everyone put something in my case.

While singing my final number, “Little Grass Shack,” a 30-something threw money in my case and said, “Too bad you were drowned out by the radio. I much prefer live music.”

“How about you and me take care of that guy?” I said.

“No, I’m a peaceful man.”

“Me too,” I said.  “It’s all about aloha.”