Apiary Above the Sixth Floor

At dawn the elevator opens like a throat of tin, and the roof exhales tar, basil, rain held overnight. Between satellite dishes, the hives hum their bronze chord, a small weather system stitched from wings.

Bees lift over traffic as if crossing a dark river, threading taxi horns, laundry steam, the bakery's warm breath. Each body carries a grain of yellow daylight, a punctuation mark dropped on every balcony geranium.

By noon the skyline shivers in heat, glass towers throw back the sun in hard sheets. Still they return, deliberate, dusted at the knees, teaching even steel where blossom begins.

At dusk I uncap the frames and smell wild thyme, subway sparks, clover from vacant lots. The city keeps sirens; the honey keeps bells, and both of them linger on the tongue after night.