Apiary Above the Departure Gates

On Terminal C, the hives hum above the radar, metal flowers opening to a sun of jet exhaust. Baggage carts rattle like tambourines below, and bees thread golden commas through contrails.

A keeper in orange gloves lifts a frame, warm as bread, dripping noon from each hexagon. Through the fence, departures blink in many alphabets; inside the comb, one language: dark, sweet, exact.

Passengers tilt their heads, forgetting their gates. For one minute no one is late, no one is lost. The runway wind carries thyme from rooftop planters, salt from distant seas folded in pollen sacks.

By dusk the city lights like a circuit board, and the hives glow low, patient as lanterns. Tomorrow will scatter names across continents; tonight, honey thickens between takeoff and return.