Greenhouse Above the Tracks

At dawn the rooftops sweat in silver. A beekeeper lifts a lid as if opening a piano. Warmth hums up from comb and cedar, and the city learns one true note.

Trains pass below like rolled thunder, their windows full of unfinished faces. Above them, pollen dusts the air vents gold; tiny pilots stitch sunlight into hexagons.

In jars, the season thickens to amber grammar. Each spoonful holds rain gutters, linden bloom, brake-light dusk. Even sirens soften, caught in sweetness, as if steel could remember meadow.

By night the hives glow faintly under moonlight. Bees fan the dark with patient wings. On the highest roof, among antennas and stars, summer keeps its pulse through winter.