Rooftop Apiary in March

Above the laundromat, boxes of cedar wake in sun. Steam from vents lifts like pale cloth into morning. Bees comb the light, each wing a struck glass note. Below, buses kneel and open their metal mouths.

A keeper in paint-splashed gloves pries winter loose. Honeyed frames glow, amber windows held to sky. The city leans in through antennas and fire escapes. Even sirens pass softer, as if through wax.

Pollen dust writes yellow weather on her sleeves. She laughs; the hive answers in one warm chord. Near the parapet, a pear tree rehearses green. Clouds drift north, carrying the smell of sugar and rain.

By noon, roofs become islands stitched with flight. What is gathered is small: a field, a rumor, a bloom. What returns is heavier, a dark sweetness of distance. In every jar, the month keeps humming.