Apiary Above the Train Yard

On the roof above Platform Nine, hives breathe in cedar boxes. Commuters below spill like mercury from the doors. Evening lifts a warm metallic wind, and the bees write cursive over satellite dishes.

Their bodies carry pollen stolen from vacant lots, gold from dandelions cracking through concrete. Each return is a small sun entering a wooden cathedral, each departure a bell no one hears.

I stand by the vent where steam salts the air, watching shadows lengthen into tracks of ink. The city keeps inventing noise, yet here the hum is a single held note.

Night arrives with diesel, rain, and distant horns. Inside the hive, darkness turns to work and honey. By morning, glass towers will taste of clover without knowing who climbed the sky to make it.