The dog roses sport bulging orange hips; the single dinnerplate hibiscus has started melting in the sun.  The dogwood fruit ripens pale pink to red, and a new planting of celosia sends its bottlebrush flowers skyward.

The platoon guitarist sings “I Want to Hold Your Hand” at the Imagine Mosaic.  Farther along the path a single wood anemone flower is open among dozens of buds; another single flower has opened on the wood anemone behind the orange jewelweed, the stem of which is as thick as the cold water pipe in my bathroom.  Across the road near Daniel Webster, the smell of newly mown grass fills my nostrils.

Despite the heat, the winds from faraway Hurricane Florence blow cool, wet air from the northeast.  Carole, the photographer, stops to chat.  “Here,” she said, pulling a dollar out of her wallet, “let me start you off.”

Two Korean girls stop to hula.  They toss a dollar and change into my case.  An Irish guy lopes up to me.  “Where’s all the money?”

“I was wondering the same thing.”  Looking down, I saw that he’d thrown me a Susan B.

A couple of Brazilian girls stopped to hula.  In my experience, you don’t have to ask Brazilian girls twice.  Another dollar and change came my way.  A 30-something man contributed another dollar.

Two women, one in a hijab, the other in a burka, slowed to study me, so I asked, “Have you got time for a hula today?”  A bearded man ran over, assessed the situation, pulled a handful of change from his pocket, and tossed it into my case before he hustled the women out of danger.

All told, it was a fine outing, netting $9.05.