Rooftop Apiary

At dawn the rooftops unbutton their tar-black coats. Hives wake like small harmoniums, breathing amber. Steam from laundries climbs the fire escapes, and bees test it first, tasting the weather's throat.

Below, buses drag blue sparks through puddled avenues. Up here, each comb is a cathedral of patient angles. A keeper in yellow gloves lifts a frame of noon, and the city leans closer, suddenly quiet.

They map the borough by scent: linden, diesel, rain. In their legs' bright saddlebags, whole parks return. Balconies bloom from windows that never met soil, and even the cranes wear a dusting of gold.

At night the skyline blinks like a field of foxfire. Inside the hive, wings fan darkness into honey. Morning will pour again over brick and antenna, and sweetness will rise where no one thought roots could.