Apiary Above the Tramlines

On the tenth-floor roof, the hives breathe cedar and sun. Below, the tram wires hum like tuned silver nerves. Pigeons lift in gray commas from the station clock. A beekeeper opens dawn with a slow, gloved hand.

Honeylight pools in each frame, thick as held music. Worker bees map the city by basil, diesel, linden bloom. Their bodies write gold equations over satellite dishes. Even the air tastes briefly of warm brass and thyme.

At noon, cranes swing shadows across glass facades, and the queens keep laying a future no billboard can sell. In office windows, people pause mid-email, watching a living weather pass from rooftop to rooftop.

By evening, jars line up like small captured sunsets. Traffic keeps rehearsing its iron river below. Night rises, and the hives settle into a low chord, as if the whole city could sleep inside one flower.