Rooftop Apiary

On the roof, the city hums like a held chord. A white box opens its throat to morning. Bees lift off, small engines of patience, trading in the air for the price of light. Below, buses fold and unfold their lungs, steam climbs the alley in thin robes. Above, the hive writes hexagons of warmth, wax maps for a place that never stays. They return with dusted knees of gold, a rumor of clover from a forgotten lot. Their dance is a compass that does not point north, only home, only the dark sweetness. At dusk the skyline cools to iron. I taste the day in a jar, amber and slow. Somewhere inside it, a million wings keep the city from forgetting its flowers.