As I entered the park, the first thing that struck me was the sound of the birds. The noise was everywhere. I looked up, past the squirrels’ nests, to the upper reaches of the trees, but there was little I could see, until, without warning, they took off, great masses moving in graceful coordination, often returning to the same upper branches, as if they’d just left home to pick up the paper and had hurried right back. Some will overwinter, but most, I suspect, are just visiting for a few days before moving farther south.

It’s been a few days since my last outing; signs of the changing season are evident in the sweaters, scarves and leather jackets people have put on, even though the temperature is above 70. The flowers that have been blooming since August still show color, if a bit faded. A white anemone past Strawberry Fields, however, is newly blooming and is magnificent.

Due to a late start this morning, the cowboy was already gone, if he had been there at all. After tuning up, I rose to begin my set, and almost immediately a Middle European couple with a toddler strolled by. The toddler was fascinated by the strange man with the uke, so much so that Dad peeled off 2 singles for the kid to give to me, after which they sat nearby and loosely supervised their son while he pushed toy trucks around the fountain’s edge.

A mother and daughter kicked in another $2, followed by a mom with 2 girls. There was $5 in my case before I finished my second song. A large teenager from London tossed in 60 cents, and after a little soft salesmanship she danced a reluctant hula. Her mom and I discussed real estate in our respective cities. I urged her to look south at the 2 monster erection on 57th Street to see what $90,000,000 will buy.

An Indiana dad and daughter stopped to chat. The girl had bright red hair in a pageboy cut, like Orphan Annie, and was making great strides in devouring an ice cream cone. She said she too played the uke, but dad and I agreed her fingers were too sticky to show me what she could do. We chatted about ukes and uke music until the ice cream was gone and dad could wipe her face. “Aloha,” said I as they walked away.

A mom and son sat on the bench in front of me. After a few tunes, I watched the mom root around in her purse. While I always hope that the rooting will produce a buck or two for me, I know not to expect too much. More often than not, it’s a cell phone, or tissues, or water bottle, or map of the park that emerges. On this occasion, however, it was indeed a change purse, and the young boy of 11 or 12 walked over with a dollar. He and his mom were from Berlin and I got a chance to practice my German as we conducted a simple conversation. I asked if they’d encountered very many people in New York who spoke their language; together they answered that I was Der Erste, the first.

Toward the end of my set, an Asian woman walked by, and, hearing my music, involuntarily moved her hand in a graceful hula-like movement. I invited her to dance, but she declined. Leaving the fountain area, she paused and opened her purse. “Here we go again,” I thought, not even bothering to calculate the odds of 2 purse-rooting tourists coming up with money 2 times in a row. The teenager that was with her brought me $2. “My grandmother was brought up in Hawaii,” he said.

“Mahalo,” I shouted out to her, to which she responded with a courteous bow.