Apiary Above the Transit Lines

At first light, the roofs unfasten their night lids. Steam lifts from vents like pale horses. Between antennas, hives glow the color of bread crust. Bees rise, a shaken chord over traffic.

Below, buses kneel and sigh at every corner. Above them, pollen dusts the keeper's sleeves gold. She moves slow as a prayer through cedar boxes, listening for the warm engine of wings.

The city learns this second weather: clover on balconies, basil in cracked cups, a sweetness stitched through iron and diesel, honey thick as late sunlight in a jar.

At dusk the swarm returns, carrying small suns. Windows catch the amber and hold it. Somewhere a child tastes August on toast and calls it morning, even in the dark.