Rooftop Apiary in April

At dawn the rooftops unfasten their tar-black coats, and warm tin breath rises between satellite dishes. A keeper lifts each hive lid like opening a piano, and light spills over combs the color of old tea.

The bees come out wearing dust of pear blossoms, small engines tuned to the key of traffic below. They cross laundry lines, cranes, cathedral spires, stitching bright routes through the iron weather.

From the street, no one hears their amber labor, only buses kneeling, brakes sighing at corners. But above the billboards, nectar becomes weather, a sweet pressure moving from flower to hand.

By noon, jars stand clear as held rain. The city tastes itself and turns briefly meadow. Even glass towers seem to soften at the edges, as if honey were a language every window remembers.