Apiary in the Server Room

At midnight the racks breathe blue through their vents, and in the maintenance corridor I keep a hive. Warmth from processors lifts the wax to a soft gold, like winter suddenly remembering June.

The bees leave by a cracked skylight at dawn, threading between satellite dishes and rain. They return dusted with rooftop clover, tiny lanterns staggering under pollen.

When alarms begin their thin red singing, I open a frame and listen past the fans. The colony hums a lower, older voltage, a river-note rubbing stone smooth.

By morning, honey pools in the steel light, amber as traffic seen through wet glass. I taste it and the room goes briefly meadow, all circuits and blossoms sharing one pulse.