Apiary Above the Transit Lines

Before sunrise, the roofs lift their tin shoulders. Five stories up, boxes of bees breathe cedar and heat. Commuter trains drag sparks under the river. The city tastes of metal, then suddenly of clover.

A keeper in a white veil tips open a humming drawer. Thousands of wings tune the cold air to one bright chord. Smoke curls like a slow question around her gloves. Honey light gathers in the comb, patient as noon.

Below, crosswalks blink their red and green commandments. Above, pollen dust writes gold on the cuffs of her suit. She moves gently, as if turning pages in a library where every book remembers summer before it arrives.

By rush hour, jars line the parapet like small suns. Taxi horns break and reform in the avenue canyon. She caps each jar, and the roof keeps singing. Even concrete can learn the grammar of flowers.