motionless after its first flight straight down

from the nest, evicted by adults for lingering.

Fuzz still on its head like the skin on fruit,

the raptor fails to hoot and howl for rescue.

Instead, the pocket-size Minerva ponders shade.

When the gardener meets Minerva in the shade,

a huddled sphere in the waxy frill of leaves,

he wonders if he should call wildlife rescue,

restrains himself from stroking the downy

breast, for handling the bird is a fruitless

reward. Armor the owlet while it lingers

in suspended confusion and fear is a lingering

thought, but there’s only so much protective shade

that kohlrabi, a root vegetable as sweet as fruit,

can offer with its upwardly mobile leaves.

This goddess of medicine refuses to go down

without a fight, though. She knows her rescue

requires calling in favors from heroes she rescued

during former lives that in her consciousness linger.

The gardener needs a shoebox to lay her down.

Its fitted-sheet cover will be useful shade

once an ornithologist arrives for pick-up and leaves

with Minerva, holding her like a basket of ripe fruit.

The gardener waves farewell to Minerva—blessed fruit—

and turns to the vegetables that also need rescue,

lettuce with a green goddess dressing poured on leaves

that weren’t washed properly, sandy soil lingering.

A gritty task for him. He wishes to nap in the shade

of the maternal owl wings that usher in sundown.

It’s dark when he awakens in the wine cellar, down-

stairs from the kitchen, where all the fall fruit

sits, preserves mysteriously jarred, shelved in the shade.

Who ushered him to sleep with a notion of rescue?

He is the opposite of Cinderella lingering

at the ball. He spots orange eyes on a limb before they leave

for the downdraft and rising thermals that rescue

the gardener from doubts that like mushrooms fruit

in the shade. This longing for flight. It never really leaves.