In spite of the threat of rain, I made my way to the park. Chilly gusts of wind drove fat black clouds across the sky. The thin crowds were swaddled in sweaters and jackets. Across from the plaque of peace-loving countries, a lone wood anemone, covered in tight buds, displayed a single flower. The plant shot new branches more than a foot long from the lower leaf clusters. The flower was made of 7 white overlapping petals around a yellow center of pollen bearing anthers, with thread-like filaments emanating from a green pea-sized ovule.

The cowboy had been joined by another guitarist and a young man, who shook out a beat with what appeared to be a coffee can full of pebbles or beans.

Under the maple, where I’ve played only infrequently this year, I prepared to sing to the birds. They flew in and out of the English Mulberry tree, pecking at the small yellow berries. In both directions, the path was empty.

A young girl of 6 or 7 named Preston was delighted to dance. Somewhere she had learned to hula. She swayed from side to side and fluttered her arms, while her proud parents looked on. Two Australian teenagers went to the hukilau next. As controlled and dignified as Preston had been, that’s how wild these girls were.

A dark-haired toddler stared at me suspiciously. “Would you like to dance the hula?”

His parents were encouraging, so I slipped a lei-crown on his head, but he shook it off. “That’s ok,” I told him, “we don’t need that.”

He didn’t know what to do, so I bent my knees; he bent his. I rocked from side to side; he rocked too. There was only so much I could do while strumming the uke, but every movement of mine got a response. By the end of the song, his parents and I agreed that a hula had been committed here today.

My last dollar arrived at the end of long line of hula dancers. A family of 6, in single file, had heard my music from the crest of the hill. First one, then another of the teenage children, skipped and swirled, followed by mom and the younger children. Dad brought up the rear with his wallet in his hand.

At the end of my set a man and his wire-haired terrier stopped to chat. He remembered me, from conversations we’d had last year or the year before, as the guy who retired to play the ukulele in Central Park. His name was Neil, and he had set his retirement date at December 31. “After that,” he told me, “I’m coming out here to play the ukulele with you.”

The gusts of wind had become a constant blow. The dark clouds were piling up fast in the northwest. I called it quits 15 minutes early, hoping to beat the rain.