Rooftop Apiary at 5 A.M.

Before the buses wake, the roof is a slate of dew. Hives glow pale as bread in first light. Nurses change shift below, doors sighing open. The bees test the air like tuning forks.

They lift through antennae and steam vents, threading warm drafts off laundry exhaust. Each wingbeat writes a small gold insistence across the blue-glass ribs of downtown.

At noon, pollen stains their knees the color of apricots. They return heavy with clover, linden, rain. I uncap a frame: the comb is a city map where every alley is sweet and exact.

By dusk the skyline burns down to ember. In the hive, darkness hums but never sleeps. Honey gathers slowly, like withheld sunlight, a quiet medicine for tomorrow's mouths.