Apiary Above the Laundry Lines

At dawn the roof exhales last night’s rain. Tin vents shine like wet fish. A beekeeper lifts a lid and the city leans in, all sirens, all sparrows, all steam.

Bees rise through laundry lines and satellite dishes, threading their small gold needles through air. Below, buses grind their teeth at every corner; above, each wingbeat is a struck glass note.

They return with pollen dusted like borrowed sunlight, landing on comb as if setting cups on a quiet table. In the dark box, sweetness thickens by the hour, a slow grammar made of flowers and distance.

At dusk, the roof holds heat like a final chord. Honey glows in jars, amber traffic of summer. We taste it and hear, faintly, the whole block breathing, brick by brick, blossom by unseen blossom.