His tattooed hands and leathered feet scale the fence around her pear tree.
With grey hairs clinging to window panes, she watches him harvest six squirrel-broken pears.
He takes one; eats. “Amen,” she whispers, witnessing his holy jacket, his ripped right pants leg, his feet returning from whence he came.
Jean Kari sometimes finds herself doing everything but what her real job requires.