Apiary Above the Laundromat

On the roof, the hives wake before the street, cedar boxes breathing sugar and rain. Below, dryers turn like small moons behind glass, and socks drift in circles of borrowed weather.

A beekeeper lifts a frame as if tuning a violin, holding it to first light and the city’s low hum. Each wingbeat needles the cold into music, a thin gold thread stitching morning to brick.

Steam climbs from vents, carrying detergent and rust; the bees pass through it without argument. They map the day in invisible ink, returning with pollen bright as traffic signals.

By noon, the roof is a page full of moving commas. Hands smell of smoke, wax, and apple skin. Somewhere a siren opens and closes like a gate, while honey thickens in the dark, learning to shine.