Apiary Above the Tram Lines

At midnight the rooftops loosen their ties, tar breath cooling under a moon like hammered tin. From vents and antennae, bees rise in slow brass spirals, gold punctuation over the sleepless tracks.

Down below, the trams ring their small iron bells, windows carrying faces lit by aquarium blue. Up here the hives hum through the gravel and sedum, a low chord tuning the city's concrete throat.

They visit tomato stars, thyme smoke, white clover in boxes, touch each bloom as if checking a pulse. Pollen dust drifts on their legs like borrowed sunrise, and every landing leaves a soft bright verdict.

By dawn the skyline smells faintly of wax and rain. Office towers catch fire with first light, then settle. In cracked planters, green keeps writing itself forward, letter by letter, wing by wing.