the green of the hills reminds me of Ireland, except they are so smooth here in Northern California. They make me think of this poem by Kay Ryan.
Green Hills
Their green flanks
and swells are not
flesh in any sense
matching ours,
we tell ourselves.
Nor their green
breast nor their
green shoulder nor
the languor of their
rolling over.
Kay Ryan
Rolling over for Kay Ryan.
Roll me over, in the clover,
roll me over, lay me down
and do it again.