Rooftop Apiary in Late Winter

Snow rehung the skyline like gauze, cement shoulders wearing a thin white shawl. On the roof, a box of wood and breath hums under its own weather.

Inside, the bees rehearse the sun by memory, their bodies the small engines of a rumor. Heat beads the comb, amber beads of grammar, a language written in warm circling.

Below, buses drag their blue sighs uphill, sirens stitch a crooked seam through clouds. The hive listens, taking the city's noise as if it were a river and they are stones.

One will rise first, tasting air like metal, mapping blossoms not yet opened. Spring is a door that keeps its hand on the latch, and their hunger is the key.