Apiary Above the Bus Depot

Before sunrise, the rooftop hives breathe tin-cold air. Commuter buses kneel below, exhaling blue steam. A beekeeper unbuttons the morning with smoke, and the city lifts its thousand-windowed face.

Bees climb the draft between antenna and laundry lines, small lanterns testing the grammar of wind. They read the billboards as fields of impossible flowers, then choose the clover hiding in cracked medians.

In my cup, honey carries rust, linden, rainwater, all the streets translated into amber vowels. Sirens pass and thin to a silver thread, while pollen dusts the cuffs of my black coat gold.

By noon the roof is a bright, humming instrument. Skylights tremble like held notes under the sun. What survives here does not ask permission: it gathers, returns, and sweetens what it can.