Rooftop Apiary at Dusk

On the seventh-floor roof, wooden boxes hum like cellos. The city exhales diesel and rainwater. Bees lift from the comb in bright punctuation, small commas turning traffic into a sentence.

Between satellite dishes, thyme blooms in paint buckets. Their wings write gold over rusted railings. Each flight returns with pollen dusting their knees, as if noon were a bakery and they kneaded light.

At sunset the glass towers soften to amber wax. Sirens pass below, thin as needles through cloth. The hive keeps speaking in a thousand warm syllables, teaching the wind to carry sweetness without owning it.

When night comes, we close the lids with careful hands. Honey waits inside, dark as bottled thunder. Above us, laundry lines and constellations share the same sky, and the roof becomes a meadow no map remembers.