Rooftop Apiary

The roof holds its quiet machines, vents breathing warm air into the evening. We keep small suns in wooden boxes, their flight a thin gold stitch above the street.

Traffic below is a slow river of tin, its reflections breaking on glass and puddles. Here, the hives hum like opened hymnals, pages turning in the wind from the river.

A jar waits, a clear throat for the day's labor, amber collected from billboard glare and alley blossoms. I taste the city distilled into sweetness, sirens softened into a long, blue note.

Night folds in its clean, dark cloth. The bees find the seam and slip inside, honeyed with the day, marked by a map of scent, while the skyline tucks its lights into sleep.