Rooftop Apiary at Dawn

On the supermarket roof, the hives wake before traffic. Tin ducts breathe warm breath into the blue. Bees lift like sparks from a careful fire, stitching gold routes above satellite dishes.

Below them, freezers hum with a winter of oranges. Above, a thin sun polishes every window. Their bodies carry the map of wild clover from vacant lots where rebar blooms with rust.

I stand with smoke in my sleeves and city dust on my tongue, listening to the comb answer in a low chord. Each cell fills slowly, amber and patient, a small cathedral built from weather and wingbeat.

By noon the skyline tastes faintly of thyme. Elevators open and close like tides of metal. In a jar, the season settles into light, and evening will pour it over bread like memory.