It poured all Wednesday morning, but around 11:30 the sun peeked out, promising a steamy, rain-free afternoon.  At the Women’s Gate, vines prospered.  Tangles wound around the fencing, morning glory reached out of the undergrowth, and wisteria launched itself from the pergola all the way to the pavement.  The only song at the Imagine Mosaic was sung by cicadas in search of a mate.

No guitarists today, no jazz combo, no acrobats.  What do they know that I don’t know?

At Bethesda Fountain, no cowboy, no accordion, no erhu.  What do I know that they don’t know?  I know that the ukulele is a happy instrument, that the hula is a happy dance, and that singing my heart out makes me happy.

I opened my set with the usual tunes, and before long a Spanish woman with a bicycle group dismounted and danced the hula, after which she gave me $1.25.  A thick-necked bruiser of a boy added another buck.  An assortment of walkers dropped change.

A dad with a baby stroller rolled up and parked in front of me.  He wife and daughter were out on a boat while he stayed with his young son.  He lived in Israel now, but spent the first 25 years of his life in New York; his wife was from Minnesota.  They were in the lady’s underwear business.

At the end of my set black clouds started rolling in from the southwest.  I counted up $7.64, then headed for the subway; I got there just as the storm broke.