Mama She lowered the cold, dead stock from her cheek As her sight fell to the ground. With her wind- Swept hair pinned back, she felt her arm go weak With relief — eyes of gray, narrow and thinned. What kind of woman has the guts to kill A seven-foot bear with her dad’s old gun? The kind of woman that protects her still Blossoming boy whose hair gleamed like the sun. The bear, his bristled fur of brown and slate,