Rooftop Apiary at First Light

Before the trains wake, the roofs exhale tin-cold breath. Between satellite dishes, hives hum like held violins. A veil of smoke unbuttons the morning. Honey-thick light pools in the gutters.

Gloved hands lift a frame, amber and trembling, hexagons bright as stained glass in a ruined chapel. Workers orbit the keeper's wrists, small planets choosing gravity over fear.

Below, traffic begins its metallic weather. Up here, wings write cursive over brick and tar, and the queen's dark comma keeps the sentence moving through clover dust, laundry steam, and sky.

By noon, jars line the sill like captive suns. The city tastes of linden, rust, and rainwater. On every tongue, a brief golden truce: summer translated by a thousand soft engines.