Apiary on the Roof

On the hospital roof, hives warm like small engines. Nurses on break lean into the wind, listening to the city's thousand windows ring with morning, each pane a mouth tasting first light.

Bees lift in amber commas, stitching pollen between basil tubs and satellite dishes. Below, elevators swallow names and release numbers; above, the air smells of thyme and clean metal.

A keeper in white gloves opens a frame - honeycomb shining, a city map made of sunlight. Inside each cell, a gold syllable hums the stubborn grammar of return.

By noon the sirens blur into distance. Jars line up in the staff kitchen, thick as candlelight. Someone writes "for night shift" on a lid, and dusk arrives already sweet on the tongue.