I ran over you

 this morning, squirrel

with my car.

I saw you,

gray, streaking, flash

below the belly,

between the tires.

I heard a thwack

and tumble.

I saw you

in the rearview mirror

twisting and riving,

trying to

get up and scurry

off the road.

But you couldn’t.

How could you

forgive me

when I left you

to suffer?

Advertisement