Apiary Above the Traffic

At dawn the rooftops lift their metal shoulders, and the trainlines below keep striking the same bright chord. Between satellite dishes and rusted vents, bees unbutton the morning from clover in cracked planters.

They return with pollen like powdered gold on their knees, a small weather moving through scaffold and steam. Sirens pass, then fade into laundry flapping five stories high; inside each hive, the dark hum thickens into light.

A child on the fire escape leans over a bowl of peaches, watching amber threads pour from a jar still warm from sun. The city, for once, tastes of something it did not burn, something gathered petal by petal from overlooked edges.

By evening, glass towers hold the last orange like held breath. On the roof, the beekeeper closes each box with careful hands. Night rises from asphalt, soft as velvet wings, and sweetness keeps working where no one sees.