Apiary Above the Traffic

At dawn the rooftops steam like opened bread, and six wooden hives warm their lacquered shoulders. Below, buses drag blue sparks through puddles, while the first scouts lift, commas of amber intent.

They map the city by taste: linden bloom beside the tram wires, a balcony jungle of basil and rust, the bitter sugar of diesel thinning in sun.

My veil fogs; I listen at the boxes. Inside, a thousand wings tune one bright chord, wax walls sweating with noon, queens walking slow as lit matches.

By evening the skyline becomes a black cup. They return heavy, furred with pollen constellations, and pour their small gold weather into comb. Night closes; the whole roof keeps humming.