Apiary Above the Rails

At dusk we climb the iron ribs of the old station, where timetables faded into weather and lichen, and set our wooden hives among satellite dishes, as if the city had grown a second, humming heart.

Smoke curls from the can like a slow gray ribbon; bees lift and settle, bright commas in cold air. Below us, the tracks hold rain like black glass, remembering trains that once spoke in thunder.

Honey comes late, thick with chestnut and rust, tasting of rooftop thyme, diesel ghosts, and July. We pour it into jars that catch the last light, small suns lined up on a concrete ledge.

By night the platforms bloom with weeds and moon, and every wingbeat stitches dark to dark. In the quiet, the whole district seems to breathe, a field of windows warming toward morning.