The Orchard Above the Cloudline

At dawn the rooftops open like suitcases of light, bees lifting from chimney shadows, brass-throated and warm. The city exhales diesel, rainwater, bakery steam; each hive hums a small cathedral into the wind.

I move between skylights with a smoker and a veil, while laundry lines flick like fishbones of silver. In cracked terracotta, thyme keeps its blue fire, and pollen dust settles on satellite dishes like gold weather.

By noon the towers ring with invisible traffic: elevators, sirens, wings. The queens write their dark cursive in comb and wax, turning noise into honey the color of late tea.

At night I lift one frame and the moon leans closer. Thousands of bodies breathe as if one instrument. Below, the avenues keep arguing with themselves; above them, sweetness thickens in the quiet.