Rooftop Apiary, Night Shift

On the hospital roof, the hives breathe warm metal air. Nurses on break hold paper cups like small moons. Bees return carrying dusk on their knees, and the skyline opens its thousand glass throats.

Above us a meteor peels the dark like citrus. Sirens climb and fade below the parapet. Honey gathers in the comb, slow amber weather, while the elevator hum keeps time in the shaft.

One bee lands on my wrist, tasting salt and ink. Its wings are clear as language before speaking. From the ICU windows, blue monitors bloom like deep-sea flowers learning the shape of breath.

At midnight we uncap a frame and the room smells of July. The city, for a minute, forgets its engines. Sweetness spills in a thin, bright thread, and every rooftop antenna turns toward it.