In the 3 weeks since I last visited Central Park, the spent flowers have been grubbed up.  Along Central Park West, the only color comes from the tiny white blooms of Philadelphia Fleabane.  Behind the benches at W. 72^nd St., the “dogs” dominate, i.e., pink dog roses and creamy dogwood.  The dogwood extends across the road to the Imagine Mosaic, with a smattering of colorless astilbe and spirea.

Bethesda Fountain has been fenced off for a Central Park Conservancy event, so once again I made my way to the Norway Maple along the path to the boathouse.  Between the lake and me is a tall White Mulberry tree, the unripe fruit of which is hidden among the leaves.  Trucks hauling provisions, following a man in dreadlocks who clears the way for them, occasionally pass in front of me.  We recognize each other from years past.  “Rich gotta eat too,” he says by way of greeting.

I got my first donation from a young woman shooting video.  I belt out “Sunday” for her and she gives me a dollar.

I have no illusions about this location.  After an hour, with only a dollar to show for it, I begin to think that today will be the day I don’t earn carfare.  A teenaged redhead puts 45 cents in my case.

“Have you got time for a hula today?”

“Sure,” she says with enthusiasm.  I drape a lei around her neck, but before we go to the Hukilau, her mom comes forward and digs in her purse for another dollar.  They both dance the hula, while dad strolls back from the staircase where they’d abandoned him for me.  They are from Lubbock TX, home of the Raiders of Texas Tech.

When they’d gone, there was $2.45 in my case, still a quarter short, but not for long.  A man who’d been leaning against the fence and watching the boaters, strode up to me, laid a dollar in my case and strode off.

I was singing “North Dakota, South Dakota,” when the lyrics caught the attention of 2 70-something gay guys.  They stopped to listen, told me how much they liked my singing, then tossed 2 singles into my case.

The path where I played is a stopping point for tours.  I play quietly while the tour guide speaks, then ask, “Has this group got time for a hula today?”  They almost never do, and today was no exception.  Nevertheless, a young woman detached herself and gave me a dollar, then ran back to rejoin the group as they disappeared over the hill toward the fountain.

I needn’t have worried.  There was $6.45 in my case, more than enough to get home.