Apiary Above the Train Yard

At dawn the rooftops unbutton their frost, and twelve hives breathe like small brass lungs. Below, freight cars groan through the river fog, hauling their iron weather out of town.

I lift a frame, and the comb shines amber, as if sunset had learned to stay in place. The bees move through it, a script of black commas, punctuating the cold with warm insistence.

From the viaduct, wind brings diesel and rain, yet here the air tastes of thyme and apple skin. Even the cranes along the skyline pause, their long necks angled toward this humming fire.

By noon the city forgets to be stone. Windows soften; pigeons wheel like ash turned gold. I close each hive and hear, through my gloves, a thousand tiny hearts rehearsing spring.