Tuliptrees flowering in the urban canopy

The morning light filters through Central Park's canopy differently now, catching the pale undersides of tuliptree leaves as they shift in the early summer air. Above the paths and benches, sixty feet up in the crown of the city's tallest native hardwood, something remarkable is happening that most people never see.

Tuliptrees are opening their flowers. Each bloom sits upright at the branch tips like a small green and orange chalice, petals thick and waxy, built to last just long enough. The flowers appear only on the upper reaches of mature trees, those old enough to have grown above the surrounding canopy. From below, you might catch a glimpse of fallen petals on the walkway, their orange bands still bright against the pavement, but the real action unfolds in the crown.

The invasive honeybees know exactly where to find them. Western honey bees, introduced centuries ago and now woven into the city's rhythms, navigate the urban landscape with precision that rivals any native pollinator. They rise from hives tucked onto rooftops and fire escapes, following scent trails that lead them past glass and steel to these ancient flowering giants. Each tuliptree flower produces both nectar and pollen in abundance, but only for a few days. The timing is everything. The tree's reproductive strategy depends on this brief window when the flowers are receptive and the rewards are rich enough to draw pollinators up through the maze of branches.

Watch the honeybees work the tuliptree flowers and you see an exchange that has persisted through the city's transformation. The bees crawl deep into each flower, their bodies dusted with pollen from the ring of stamens that surrounds the central pistil. They carry genetic material from tree to tree across blocks and boroughs, connecting isolated giants in a network of reproduction that spans the urban forest. The tuliptrees depend entirely on this service. Without pollinators, the distinctive cone-shaped fruits that give the tree its other name, yellow poplar, would never form. Each fruit is actually a cluster of winged seeds that will spiral away from the parent tree when autumn arrives, seeking open ground where a new giant might take root.

The relationship runs deeper than simple transaction. Tuliptree flowers bloom in sequence, not all at once, extending the nectar flow across several weeks of early summer. This steady supply helps sustain honeybee colonies through the critical period when they are building toward their population peak. In return, the bees provide something the wind cannot: targeted pollen transfer between trees that may be separated by miles of concrete and asphalt. The city's tuliptrees form a scattered population, isolated specimens and small groves connected only by the flight paths of their pollinators.

Listen for the low hum that drifts down from the flowering crowns on still mornings. It is the sound of dozens of honeybees working the same tree, their flight patterns creating a busy network of activity sixty feet above the sidewalk. The flowers they visit will become the seeds that carry tuliptree genes forward, each one a potential century-old giant for a future city. The morning air carries the faint sweetness of nectar and the deeper green smell of leaves growing thick in the longest days of the year.