Rooftop Apiary at Dusk

On the supermarket roof, the hives breathe warm cedar, while traffic below combs the avenue into shining threads. A train enters the station like struck metal, and the evening lifts its sleeve of pollen.

Bees return with yellow dust on their knees, small priests of clover from vacant lots and median weeds. They map the air in figure eights, writing weather where no one is looking.

I stand by the access door with a bucket and smoker, listening to the city thrum through concrete and wax. Each frame drips amber light, as if sunset had chosen a wooden grammar.

When night arrives, the towers keep their red blinking stars, and the hives settle into a single patient chord. Somewhere in the dark, flowers close like folded letters. By morning, the rooftops will taste of honey and rain.