Green is the colour of her kind

I'm missing the last of the sun ripple through the trees, at a certain bend of the road. Just past the dam but before the second climb. Where the waters are gone and the woods are thick. It will be ripe with sage smell caught deep in the hills. It's not so far as the stand of houses across the creek or the long road to the radar tower. But I remember and its calling me like an echoing sweet of a day gone. But I remember.