Apiary Above the Rail Yard

On the warehouse roof, the hives breathe heat through cedar seams darkened by rain. Below, freight cars clang like struck brass, and evening opens its blue, metallic throat.

Bees lift in slow spirals, each body a small ember, grazing steam that climbs from kitchen vents. Their hum threads the antennas and clotheslines, a bowed string held steady against the wind.

A keeper in yellow gloves tips a frame to the light; honey glows there, thick as captured sunset. The skyline leans closer, window by window, as if the towers too could taste wild thyme.

Night settles pollen on the rails and stairwells. Somewhere a train departs, carrying sparks east. In the hive, thousands of wings fold into one warm dark, and the city keeps that music under its tongue.