A white dog runs across the lanes.
Dull sound of the hit.
We stop. It is gone. No body.
No carcass. No sign of it.
All day I gather miracles—
purple scent of garden sage,
steep leaning trees, unfolding clouds,
a spring in the center of a city street.
All day I replay the thud. The screech.
I repent. I would change things if I could.