Rooftop Apiary at Dawn

Before the sun arrives, the skyline hums in lowercase, ventilation fans turning like slow prayers. On the hospital roof, hives warm themselves to speech, and amber wakes inside each wooden box.

The keeper lifts a frame as if opening a violin, wax comb bright as tiny cathedral windows. Bees write their gold arithmetic in the morning air, solving for nectar between cranes and traffic lights.

Down below, elevators ferry worry and hope, names whispered through masks, through fluorescent weather. Up here, thyme in cracked planters insists on sweetness, a stubborn green pulse beside satellite dishes.

When daylight finally spills over the river, the city puts on its hard-faced jacket again. Still, in the rafters of wind above concrete, a thousand small bodies keep choosing bloom.