Apiary at the Rail Yard

At the edge of freight tracks, the hives lift their bronze hum, small engines of nectar under a bruised evening sky. Graffiti blooms on concrete like wild saints, and each bee returns wearing dust of clover and rust.

A train passes slowly, carrying windows full of strangers. Its iron breath shivers the mint in cracked planters. From rooftop barrels, rainwater remembers thunder, while wings stitch amber thread through diesel air.

The keeper moves among boxes with smoke and patience, a veil lit thin as onion skin by the station lamps. Honey gathers in the dark like stored sunlight, thick and warm as a hand around a winter cup.

Night leans in. Sirens fade to a far blue pulse. Inside the comb, thousands of small hearts beat time with the city’s sleepless wires, and sweetness keeps being made where no one expected it.