They’ve planted out cosmos at the entrance to the park, just a few inches off the ground, yet already showing colors of white, pink and red. Just past the drinking fountain between the button sellers, wisteria tendrils, dripping down from a pergola and blowing wildly in the wind, seemed to be going for my throat. On the lawn south of 72nd St., what the maps call Terrace Drive, sunbathers stripped down to catch the rays. It was hot.

It was so hot, Arlen and Meta were nowhere to be found; I had Bethesda Fountain to myself. There was a nice mix of dancers today: toddlers who didn’t know what they were doing, co-eds from Queens who did, moms and dads demonstrating for their children. A green-shirted elderly conservancy worker nodded hello, then stopped as if he wanted to say something. I recognized him. A few years ago, early in the season before the Quiet Zone wars, he told me that he liked my music, but once the fountain was turned on, people had a right to hear the splashing water without distraction, so I should find someplace else to play. Perhaps he too recalled that conversation, and witnessed its effect, because he turned without a word and walked away. A teenager from the East 60’s said he liked my music, but he didn’t dance.

After 90 minutes I packed up. I folded $12 into my pocket, but the change in my case had become too hot for me to count until I got home.