Rooftop Apiary at 4 A.M.

Before buses wake, I climb the service stairs to the roof where hives hum like covered violins. Steam from the bakery below lifts through chain-link, sweet as bread remembering wheat.

I uncap the smoker; blue threads curl around the boxes painted weathered mint. Bees rise and settle on my sleeves, small lanterns testing the dark.

East windows ignite one floor at a time; in each pane, a clerk, a plant, a sleepless lamp. The queens keep laying their golden punctuation while sirens fade into morning milk.

When the sun clears the water tower, honey warms inside its hidden architecture. I go down smelling of cedar and clover, carrying daylight in my cuffs.