Apiary on the Seventh Floor

At dawn the elevator opens into weather, and the roof hums like a tuned wire. Boxes of bees warm themselves in painted cedar, while glass towers hold their breath.

They lift in amber spirals over traffic, sampling clover in median strips, balcony basil, courthouse linden blooms, the small green rumors the city keeps.

By noon my gloves smell of smoke and thyme. Honey gathers slowly, a sun-colored grammar, each frame a crowded alphabet of wings writing sweetness between sirens.

At dusk I cap the jars and watch the skyline brighten like candles in a cathedral of windows. Somewhere below, trains enter the dark. Up here, the hive keeps singing tomorrow.