We weren’t supposed to be here, not really.
The sun was about to set.
The last of the visitors had trailed out hours ago.
Feeble rays of light lit our path, and the dirt glowed golden.

It was only then that I let myself lean over the cast-iron railing.
Wow.
The word come to my lips at once — juvenile, unpoetic — but it was there,
And it wasn’t going away.

Time slipped by as I gazed, mesmerized, at the postcard below.

And I could almost hear strains of music coming from the hills in the distance.
Almost.