Apiary Above the Laundromat

At dusk the rooftops warm like old violins, tar breathing fennel and rain. We carry wooden boxes up the fire escape, small cathedrals for a city-sized hum.

The bees rise in a bronze spiral, threading laundry lines, satellite dishes, gulls. Below, buses kneel and sigh at each corner; above, each wingbeat stitches light to air.

In July the frames come heavy with weather, clover, linden, a rumor of diesel. Honey runs amber as traffic signals, slow enough to mirror every cloud.

By autumn we leave them sugar and silence. Night cranes swing red eyes over the river. Somewhere a siren bends into distance, and the hive answers with one steady note.