Rooftop Apiary, 3 A.M.

On the hospital roof, hives hum beside satellite dishes. Night unfurls its black silk between antennae. Beekeepers in reflective vests lift frames like small windows, and the city leaks amber through each comb.

Syringes clink in bins below, elevators breathe, while thousands of wings tune the dark to a single key. Smoke drifts thin as handwriting across the moon, and every worker returns carrying dust of distant balconies.

In the ICU, monitors blink green constellations; up here, wax warms under gloved thumbs. A queen moves slow as a thought we trust, ringed by attendants bright with rooftop pollen.

Before dawn, they seal the boxes, listening. Traffic begins like rain on tin. They leave honey for the day shift in unmarked jars, sunrise already trembling inside the glass.