Apiary Above the Expressway

At dawn the rooftop hives unfasten their doors, and bees pour out like punctuation from a shaken book. Below, buses exhale at red lights, their windows briefly holding the color of honey.

Workers in hard hats eat breakfast on overturned buckets, listening to the low violin of wings. A queen no one sees edits the day from darkness, line by line, in wax that smells of warm bread.

Pollen comes back on their legs like borrowed sunlight. They map the avenues by scent, by heat, by rumor. Between antennas and laundry lines they stitch a yellow grammar through the air.

By noon the skyline hums with hidden orchards. Glass towers learn to keep still for landing. Even the sirens seem to bend a softer note, as if the whole city were being taught to bloom.