“This tree is dead,” said the shirtless man on a blanket under the chestnut. He had a picnic basket, a book and a cell phone strewn about, so he probably was not homeless. I was squinting up at the high branches, looking for nuts. Most had already fallen.

“It starts to brown up like this every July,” I told him. “But look,” grabbing a branch and examining it, “growing tips. Every spring, this tree keeps coming back.”

“Until it doesn’t,” the man said.

I stomped on a shiny chestnut, crushing it against the broad ledge of Manhattan schist that rises out of the lawn there. The meat was white and moist. “Still good eating,” I said, tossing him the nut. “For squirrels.”

Distressed to find the cowboy back at the fountain, I moved on. It was cool in the shade of my maple, and hot in the sun. I found myself moving back and forth between them, trying to stay comfortable. A little kid of 7 or 8, asking his father for money, started me off with a quarter. A white-bearded man in his 70’s tossed 2 more quarters into my case as he walked by.

Two young women stopped to talk about ukuleles. One of the women, from Brooklyn, had just taken up the uke; she played the 2 chords she knew. The other woman was visiting from Switzerland. They happily danced a verse of “The Hukilau Song.” Afterward, the Brooklynite was very apologetic: she only had 20’s.

“Aloha,” said I.

A short while later, a mother of 2 had a dollar for a hula. At the same time, a passer-by stopped to contribute some change. For a moment, there was a veritable crush of people around my case, and then it was over. I practiced my new songs, “My Baby Just Cares for Me” and “Down Among the Sheltering Palms.” In the shade, I focused on the baroque towers of the San Remo; in the sun, the art deco towers of the Majestic came into view.

Despite the calendar, the busking season of 2015 still has a few more days in it. Until it doesn’t.