A beautiful Thursday in May brought me back to the park. In the deep shade I spotted foxglove, while behind the benches wild roses bloomed beneath the buff-flowered dogwood. At Strawberry Fields, which is posted as a quiet zone, a young man who usually sat on a bench was standing at the top of the Imagine mosaic playing Beatles’ songs on his guitar. As I passed, I heard him say to a retreating crowd, “Thanks for taking advantage of a homeless person.” It was a jarring complaint I hadn’t heard before. I think of buskers as putting out their music for free; to expect contributions is wrong-headed and to complain about it is self-defeating.

Arlen and Meta were at the fountain, so I moved on to the path. Rhododendron and azalea waved pink and white in the cool breeze. It was a slow day. My first dollar came after half an hour from a 30-something young woman. “Thanks,” I said.

“No, thank you.”

After watching a woman gamely hula, to the delight of her friends, two young children who were picnicking with their parents on the rocks behind me shyly wandered up to me. “You want to hula?” They appeared to be from North Africa or the Middle East. “Ask your parents if it’s ok, and we’ll hula.” They returned each with a dollar in hand. The boy chose a blue lei, the girl pink.

Something new in the park today, a Buddhist monk in saffron robes aggressively begging. At the end of my session I visited with Arlen and Meta, where they were packing up for the day. Meta is always happy to convert Canadian currency for me. She counted out 5 singles, as I admired the Siberian irises, pale purple and white, that fluttered like birds on their narrow stems along the lakeshore. “Did you see that monk?” Arlen asked. “I don’t think he’s legit.”

“Legit? Really?” We had a good laugh. “We’re all outlaws here,” I reminded him.