Apiary at First Light

The rooftop wakes before the avenue does, its gravel holding last night’s rain like a low chord. Boxes of bees hum warm as kettles, and the city’s glass keeps a pale, unbroken breath.

A keeper lifts a frame as if turning a page, gold cells glinting with the grammar of weather. Around her wrists, workers circle and settle, small planets choosing orbit over fear.

Below, buses kneel and rise at each stop, coffee steam braids with diesel, then thins. Up here, clover from vacant lots becomes sunlight, translated through wingbeat, blossom, and distance.

When morning finally spills over the parapet, every window catches fire for a moment. She seals the hive and listens to its steady music, a pocket of summer carried above the streets.