Apiary Above the Tramlines

At dawn the rooftops steam like bread just broken, and hives wake first, small engines of gold. Between satellite dishes and rain barrels the bees lift, stitching warm threads through cold air.

Below, the tram sparks blue at every corner, vendors rinse mint in dented silver bowls, and pollen rides their aprons like soft rust while church bells comb the fog for hidden light.

I lean against the chimney's brick pulse, listening to wings tune the morning's throat. Each return is a brief sun in the hand, a map of blossoms no street can name.

By noon the city smells of wax and thunder. Windows open like pages turned at once. Honey darkens slowly in the comb, and even the traffic hums in a sweeter key.