A silver-white bottlebrush bush blooms behind the benches, beside the dog roses, whose lush green branches are tipped with red growth.  At the Imagine Mosaic, I wave hello to Randy, the dobro player, who has joined the platoon of guitarists’ playing the Beatle canon.

Randy is one of the first buskers I met when I started in 2007.  So many others have left the scene.  Arlen, on dulcimer, and Meta, on harp, once mainstays of Bethesda Fountain, are no longer to be found there.  Dominick, on guitar, also disappeared.  For a while, he’d joined the Boyd Family Singers, who have semi-permanent possession of the arcade, but that didn’t last long.  I saw him once at the 103rd St. subway station, then last year I ran into him and Kendra, another ukulele player; they were a couple now and played Union Square.  Raheem, on sax, who once claimed he made $125,000 a year busking, has gone mainstream.

The blighted chestnut tree is showing small green catkins that will eventually form conical flowers and spiky fruit.  The magnolias are in transition; the white pink-tinged petals rot on the ground, as well as in limp brown clumps high in the branches.  Trillium masses in the shaded triangular plot near the Information Booth.

No one is busking at Bethesda Fountain.  In fact, there are almost no people there.  I played for more than 30 minutes before a couple of gay guys packed up their lunch and dropped a dollar each into my case.  A fashionably dressed woman thanked me with a dollar.

“Have you got time for a hula today?”

“It’s too hot to hula.”

A teenage girl from Long Island, who had already said no to a hula, walked by again and said yes.  “How much is this going to cost me?” she said.

“Free of charge,” said I.  Most of the time, people will cough up a buck for a hula.  And if not, others, watching, might.  After a single verse of “The Hukilau Song,” she returned the lei and walked away.

Two Korean women walked down the path from the boathouse straight to me.  Each one smoothed out a dollar and placed it in my case.  A tall thirty-something man who’d been listening from the path, in the shade, stepped out into the sun, opened his purse and poured out 73 cents.

A group of high school kids from Miami had been picnicking on the lawn behind the benches throughout most of my set.  At one point they dispersed for a bathroom break, then straggled back in small groups.  “Have you got time for a hula today?”

In the end, I wrangled 4 girls, 2 of whom could hula well; the others followed.  A fifth girl took video.  At the end of the dance, I collected the leis and the girls walked away.

When I gathered up my take for the day, $5.73, the change was too hot to hold.  And tomorrow, I’m told, will be hotter.