Rooftop Apiary at 2 A.M.

Between HVAC lungs and satellite dishes, the hives glow like small train stations, bees arriving with moon-dust on their legs, each wingbeat tuning the aluminum dark.

I lift a frame; it smells of apricot and rain, wax corridors bright as cathedral candles. The queen moves through her city of touch, a pulse of amber threading every room.

Below us, avenues flicker and forget, sirens braid with the soft engine of honey. Heat rises from tar like a second weather, and the bees drink it, turning fever into light.

By dawn, jars line up on the parapet, sun caught inside them, patient and thick. The skyline loosens its night-colored tie, and every window tastes briefly of clover.