Apiary Above the Avenue

At dawn the rooftop hives unfasten their hum, and the city lifts like a lid from warm tea. Bees thread between antennas, gold stitches sewing wind to the cracked blue bowl of morning.

Each wingbeat carries a map no screen can render: linden blossom, diesel breath, wet copper gutters. Traffic below changes lights like restless planets, while pollen brightens their knees with small suns.

At noon I open one box and smell July becoming, wax, rain, and a dark sweetness older than money. The queen moves through shadow like a quiet comet; workers part, then close, an orbit made of trust.

By evening the roofs cool and windows begin to glow. Honey thickens in the comb, patient as amber light. Night lowers its telescope over the district, and the hives keep speaking in a language of stars.