Randy, the dobro player, has worked his way into the rotation of platoon guitarists at the Imagine Mosaic.  “It’s very well organized here,” he told me.  “None of the conflicts you’ve got at the fountain.”

The wilting, drooping plants along the path await the merciful frost.  The wood anemone score:  2-0.  The flowers have formed seed pods, like green peas, on axial branches, looking like nodes in a network diagram.

First up to hula was a Brazilian woman.  After her dance, she and a friend posed for pictures and gave me a dollar.  A couple off the bench walked up to me with a dollar.  “Thank you,” I said.  “No, no, thank you,” was the answer.

A teenager on a skateboard rolled by and tossed 28 cents into my case.

Despite the warm weather, a cool breeze kept me comfortable.  “I really enjoyed your music,” said a man coming off the bench with a buck.

A quartet of Chinese women from Hong Kong danced to “The Hukilau Song,” then walked away.

The day’s final contribution came from a couple who had been listening nearby.  They were from The Netherlands, from a town called Tilburg in the south.  They either gave me $2, or someone else kicked in a dollar when I wasn’t looking.

Early in my set, another busker set up on the other side of the fountain.  He played classical guitar and sang opera, fully amplified with an orchestral accompaniment.  I held my annoyance in check for over an hour; he was plenty loud without the mic, and plenty rude for setting up so close to me.  The beautiful day helped me find my inner aloha, so I could finish my set with some equanimity.  After packing up, however, on my way out, I let him know, calmly, that amplification was prohibited, then quickly walked away before I lapsed into stronger language.