After a snowfall Tuesday night, the temperature stayed well below my busking threshold, then on Saturday I ventured out for another weekend in the park. The flowering pear trees along Broadway are glorious, while in the park apple-white and cherry-pink blossoms brighten the still mostly bare landscape. At the entrance at 72nd St., where the bicycle-rickshaws line up, there are wine-red shoots, 1-2” long, pushing out among the thorns on the green wood of the rose bushes. People are still bundled up in coats and sweaters, but the sun is warm.

The break-dancers have drawn a huge crowd. Bongo rhythms echo all around the fountain. I stop to ask Arlen, “How can you play your music here.”

“I can’t,” he said, “not when the rules aren’t enforced.” He was speaking about the noise ordinance prohibiting amplified music in the park. He lit a cigarette. There is another ordinance prohibiting smoking too, but, true to the Aloha Spirit, I let it go.

At the top of the path, two young teens were softly singing who knows what. One played the guitar while the other drummed on the crate he sat on. I set up farther along the path in order not to interfere with them, complying with Busker Rule #1: Don’t set up against another busker.

As if today were Central Park Rule Day, who walks by but the Park Service’s Urban Rangers, two women in uniforms of green and brown, complete with Smokey the Bear hats and leather jackets. I recognized the Sergeant from the Quiet Zone Wars of 2012, when Strawberry Fields, Bethesda Fountain and the Boat Pond were designated Quiet Zones by the Central Park Conservancy. With no place to play, buskers ignored the signs and were chased around the park by various uniformed enforcers. One was arrested by the NYPD.

“Things have been fine since then,” I told her.

“I’m glad. You’re in a good spot here,” she added, as if the Quiet Zones were still in force, and she was glad not to arrest me.

After a slow start, a giggling young girl dropped three pennies into my case. I always say thank-you, even when it’s clear that I’m being mocked by these copper contributions. I remember one occasion several years ago when my thank-you shamed a wiseacre into turning around and opening his wallet. It was a $6.54 day today, representing a fair number of hulas, a couple of random handfuls of change and one little girl who, although she wouldn’t wear a lei, rocked out to the Hukilau like nobody’s business.