Rooftop Apiary in the Rain

The city combs itself with cables and wet light, a tin roof stippled into a pond. A beehive hums like a small engine asleep, steam lifting off its lid.

Rain threads the air with a slow percussion, each drop a seed in the gutter's throat. The bees fly out anyway, velvet commas, skimming a puddle that mirrors a billboard.

A gardener kneels beside milk crates of basil, hands smelling of pennies and leaf oil. She whispers to the roof, and the roof listens, holding the weight of weather and honey.

By night, the hive breathes against the skyline, its warmth a lantern under corrugated stars. The city grows quiet, and in that quiet, we hear the syrup of rain becoming light.