Rooftop Apiary After the Rain

The rooftops exhale, tin lungs rinsed clean, a faint steam rising from tar like bread. Gutters stitch the avenues with silver thread, and the morning is a soft brass note.

A hive opens its papered mouth. Bees lift themselves from the wet dark, carrying the taste of thunder in their legs, mapping the air with amber grammar.

Across the alley, laundry flags breathe, shaking out the scent of soap and sky. Somewhere a kettle begins its small volcano, and windows blink, slow-eyed, into light.

I stand between the chimneys and the clouds, hearing the city reharmonize with bees. The rain’s last drop is a held syllable, then the chorus of wings takes over.