Rooftop Apiary at Dawn

Before alarm clocks, rooftops warm like old brass. A beekeeper lifts lids of small wooden planets. From each box rises a grammar of wings, thin gold commas stitching the morning.

Below, buses drag sparks through puddled avenues, coffee steam climbs fire escapes in soft columns. The bees map balconies, laundry, satellite dishes, finding clover in cracks where concrete forgets itself.

They return dusted with yellow weather, legs heavy with summer no forecast predicted. Inside the hive, dark honey thickens to cello notes, a slow music poured from flower to flower to jar.

By noon the skyline will harden into numbers, but now the city kneels to this low humming. Even the cranes stand still, listening, while light uncaps each window like a blossom.