Amber Weather

On the hospital roof, the hives wake before dawn, rainwater still cupped in satellite dishes, bees lifting like sparks from a damp hymn, each wing a small engine tuning the gray.

Below, the city coughs buses into morning, steam climbs from grates and bakery vents, and the queens inside their cedar rooms feel June arriving through a thousand feet.

Pollen comes home as gold dust on black fur, a weather report written in legs and light; they braid the air between cranes and clotheslines, mapping sweetness where sirens used to rule.

By noon the comb is warm as held breath, hexagons filling with sun made liquid. From the street no one sees this amber weather, only the windows, suddenly brighter, listening.