A week has seen some progress in the park. The daffodils are out in full; the forsythia is starting to show color. They’ve laid out beds of mostly purple pansies behind the benches at the W. 72nd St. park entrance, giving the impression that spring is far more advanced than it is deeper in the park. Still, if the magnolia buds are fattening, can the cherry blossoms be far behind?

Past the Imagine Mosaic guitarist (“A Day in the Life”), on the outcropping on which is attached a bronze plaque listing the 121 countries who would give peace a chance if they weren’t so busy making war, sat Randy with his dobro. In response to “How was your winter?” he listed his various health issues, adding cheerfully that Medicare, for which he recently became eligible, was a godsend.

The crowd at the fountain was thin. My first hula dancer, a young jogger just finishing her workout, had no money. Another woman gave me a dollar and asked to take my picture. I saw two regulars, my elderly West Indian woman who crosses the park, east to west, every day between 12:30 and 1:00, and an eastside matron taking the air with a friend. She wiggled her fingers in a tootle-loo to me. “You know that guy?” I heard her friend ask.

By 1:30 almost everyone was gone, except a 30-something couple, just finishing their lunch, and a park worker, on his hands and knees, digging knots of weeds out from between the stones of the fountain. “Don’t you have Round-Up for that?”

“Too close to the lake,” he said.

The couple packed up, tossed their refuse in a trash can, and $2 in my case. That brought the day’s take to $9.