Rooftop Apiary

At dawn, the rooftops warm like cast-iron pans. A beekeeper climbs the fire escape with smoke and mint. Between satellite dishes, hives hum in copper chords. The city yawns below, all glass and ambulance light.

Bees lift from the comb as if reading braille in air, touching pollen to antennas, laundry lines, wet rails. Their legs return dusted gold from balcony tomatoes, from weeds prying open concrete at the tram stop.

At noon, heat trembles over tar and skylight. Honey thickens in frames, a slow amber weather. Inside each hexagon, small moons are being poured, sunlight translated by wings into something we can keep.

By evening, jars line the sink like pocket lanterns. Traffic thins to a river of red commas. I taste one spoonful and hear the whole roof singing: iron, thyme, rainwater, and the bright work of hunger.