Rooftop Apiary at First Light

Before the trains wake, the roofs hold their breath. Hives glow like small chapels under tin dawn. Bees lift themselves through steam from bakery vents, gold commas stitching the avenue to the sky.

On the twelfth floor, thyme in cracked paint buckets leans toward them, a choir of purple tongues. The city smells of diesel, wet brick, orange peel, and every wingbeat edits the morning quieter.

A child at a bus stop points as if naming stars; an old mason lowers his coffee and smiles. Even the billboards soften, bright animals listening, while pollen dust settles on scaffold and glass.

By noon the heat will harden into traffic, but now the air is a wooden flute, open. From hive-mouth to blossom, from blossom to hand, the day begins as honey learns to move.