Apiary Above the Avenue

Before commuters wake, the roof is a brass bowl of light, hives breathing cedar and warm sugar into the cold. A subway sigh rolls up through the vents, and every window across the avenue turns briefly to honey.

I lift one frame and the city loosens its tie; bees write cursive weather over my wrists. Their bodies, small metronomes, keep time with sirens fading toward the river like red petals in rain.

On ledges below, basil and satellite dishes share the wind. Laundry snaps like prayer flags between brick walls. Pollen dusts my gloves the color of late apricot, as if evening had arrived early and knelt at my hands.

By noon the skyline hardens back into glass. Still, in the comb, sunlight is stored as a second language, thick and gold and patient on the tongue, a meadow translated for people who forgot the field.