The day started off well. The guitarist at the Imagine Mosaic was playing “Eight Days a Week,” and people sitting on the nearby benches were singing along. Picnickers had spread out under the deceptively healthy-looking chestnut tree. A natural mosaic caught my eye: pink magnolia petals strewn among yellow dandelions. Across the road to the south, cherry blossom clusters the size of softballs lit up the sky. Also to the south, two enormous erections rose twice the height of any other buildings on the skyline.

At the fountain, a modest number of people sat around the benches, a photo shoot was taking place by the lake, and a black dog pranced in the water. Two little children, restrained by their mom, tried to climb headfirst into the water to join it. A kibitzer in a suit and tie watched the action. “Have you got time for a hula today?”

He was waiting for a friend, who took so long to catch up that the man felt compelled to reward me with $2 for keeping him entertained. The two little children, saved from drowning, sat on the bricks in front of me to listen, reminding me of Maggie. The photographer, Ann Price, sent me a second photo of me and Maggie.

The day’s Aloha was shattered by Rangers Wheeler and Brown, uniformed Parks Department employees who advised me that I was playing in a Quiet Zone and had to move. They suggested I move to the Arcade or to the Bandshell on the other side of the road. I will not attempt to record the conversation that ensued; suffice it to say I mounted a spirited, unsuccessful defense of my First Amendment rights, was threatened with a summons, then moved on to my second favorite location, under the maple on the path to the Boathouse.

We buskers have seen this before. Every spring, with the exception of 2014, the powers-that-be clear the park of musicians. Over a period of a few weeks, enforcement is strict, so that by June only the strong of heart remain. The Quiet Zone Wars of 2011-2013 produced a settlement, negotiated by NY Civil Liberties Union lawyer Norman Siegel. It contained some time, duration and location restrictions, but was generally workable, especially for acoustic soloists.

At my second location, despite the high fence masking work on the rowboat rental operation, I cast my eyes to the heavens, to the fluffy white clouds, to the gracefully proportioned skyline of Central Park West, to the cardinal screeching from the towering mulberry tree. Slowly, the Aloha Spirit returned. A dollar here, a dollar there from passing men, 50 cents from an old lady, a dollar from a late teen boy who apologized that it wasn’t more.

Four Australian lads, just arrived, hula-ed through a verse of “The Hukilau Song.” “So what have you guys planned for today?”

“Not much,” said one. “We’ve already seen enough. I think we’ll head for a bar. Oh, and there’s a concert tonight with an Australian band, you should come.”

A school group trooped by. When I asked where they were from, someone shouted “Michigan.”

“Have you heard this one?” I sang a cappella, “Oh, how I wish again, I were back in Michigan, down on the farm.”

One of the kids gave me a dollar. “Thanks,” he said, “I never heard that one.”

A young woman cresting the hill and coming into sight reached deep into her very large purse for something to give me. A teenage boy dropped 60 cents.

Rangers Wheeler and Brown then showed up again. A walkie-talkie crackled on Wheeler’s belt. “It’s you again,” she said with amusement. “You’re our call.”

“What call?”

“We got a call about you, a complaint. You can’t play here. We told you where you can play.”

“Who complained? About what?”

“We can’t tell you that. Now move or we’ll call NYPD.”

It was almost quitting time, so I counted up $7.10 and stuffed it in my breast pocket. When I got home I wrote a note to Norman Siegel. Tomorrow, if it’s a nice day with temperatures above 60, I will once more into the fray.