The pink, rose and yellow tulips, punctuated by white daffodils, lead the visitor into the park entrance, where behind the benches, setting off the greening rose bushes, white tulips are in their glory.

There was a disturbance at the Imagine Mosaic; a drunken youth was throwing f-bombs at the guitarists and the tourists alike. The guitarist, one of the regulars in the platoon system there, tried to calm him down, only to inflame him further. There would be no aloha here, so I just kept walking.

The chestnut blossoms are as long as my hand, and tiny white flowers are starting to emerge from the bottom of the stem. Most trees are in full leaf. Over the sunny weekend, the pilot light-like growing tips on the catalpa have strengthened to a slow simmer. The silver bell tree at Cherry Hill is dressed out in, well, silver bells. Azalias have started showing their color.

An old man playing a small accordion or musette occupied the bench at the fountain, so I kept moving up the path. At the benches sat Meta, the harpist. I wondered when I’d see her, or her partner Arlen, the dulcimer player. We exchanged greetings, then she said, “I heard you got kicked out of the park.”

“Yes, twice. Where did you hear that?”

“From Paul.”

Paul is a young homeless man who, with a full black beard and long black coat worn in all weather, lives somewhere in the park and, apparently, keeps his ear to the ground for busker gossip. I haven’t seen him in years, not since the last outbreak of the Quiet Zone Wars. Meta and I discussed the situation. She had been rousted too, as an unlicensed vendor. She mentioned someone named Jeff who works with, or otherwise has a relationship with Norman Siegel of the NYCLU; Jeff personally had come to argue her case with the rangers. We discussed contingencies and next steps; we’ve both survived spring sweeps before. When someone stopped to ask her to play a piece by Bach, I moved on.

A school group from The Netherlands stopped to hula. Two boys donned leis while their classmates hooted and snapped photos. When I looked down after they’d gone, there were 5 singles in my case. A dog walker told me, “Very charming, you and your little ukulele.”

Maggie and her master, Marcel, paid a visit. I’d alerted him to Maggie’s picture of the other day, for which he wanted to reward me with a dollar. I should probably start giving Marcel money, because Maggie is a big draw for photographers. While she sat in rapt attention during “I Wonder Where My Little Hula Girl Has Gone,” a man took pictures from several angles, netting me $2.

I got 26 cents from a 30-something, and a dollar each from 2 old ladies.

“It’s the ukulele man,” shrieked a teen from Barnegat, NJ. She and her friend enjoyed a fast hula before running off to find their group.

Meta was still at it when I walked out of the park. “Did you have a good day?” she asked.

“Always,” said I. And, on yet another beautiful day, I believed it to be true.