The omen appeared at the spotlight - a little bird perched on a young woman's finger. The car windows were as wide open as windows could be on an August afternoon, but the little brown bird, a sparrow I thought, seemed perfectly happy just to sit and wait for the light to change. The bird's driver, feeling my stare from the sidewalk, turned to me and explained, "We found him in the back of our building three days ago. Must've fallen from his nest ... Do you know what to feed 'm?
    "Worms," I cried, "big fat juicy worms." as the light changed and they sped down Columbus Avenue, presumably to look for worms.
    Late Sunday afternoon is a wonderful time to walk in Central Park. By six o'clock most people are finished with the weekend picnic and so involved with Monday already that the park empties out and turns into the private woodland fantasy Olmsted and Vaux envisioned for world-weary New Yorkers.