Apiary Under Streetlights

Before dawn, the city keeps an unseen orchard: traffic lights bloom red in wet intersections, and under the viaduct a hive hums in concrete shadow, gold bodies reading wind through rusted rebar.

They rise like sparks from a struck match, threading diesel breath, bakery steam, river fog; every balcony geranium becomes a small republic, every cracked gutter sings with nectar and rain.

At noon, cranes swing their iron arms above them, yet the workers keep mapping sunlight on their tongues, returning with pollen dust bright as turmeric, a soft fire carried room to room in darkness.

By night, the queen is a pulse in the center, and the whole comb glows with patient weather. We sleep in towers of glass, believing we are alone; below us, sweetness is being made from noise.