Apiary Between Antennas

On the roof between satellite dishes, wooden hives breathe like small harmoniums. Evening slips copper over the tar, and the city lifts its glass-throated hum.

Bees return with yellow dust on their knees, mapping orchards no map app can name. They thread the wind above laundromats, bus depots, tiny ferries crossing a molten grid.

I open the smoker; thyme and cedar bloom. A queen moves through darkness bright as ink. Below, sirens comb the avenues for trouble; up here, wings answer with patient weather.

By night the comb stores noon in hexagons, sunlight folded into edible amber. When I taste it, traffic turns to meadow, and every window keeps a field in secret.