Apiary on the Water Tower

At dawn the water tower exhales rust and rain. Bees lift from its rim like sparks from a struck coin. Below, laundromats yawn open, blue with detergent light. The city learns one bright syllable: hum.

I climb the iron ladder with a bucket of mint. Wind combs the rooftops into silver fur. Each hive box is a small cathedral of weather, wax windows breathing heat against my wrists.

Inside, queens write gold cursive on darkness. Workers return dusted with pollen from vacant lots, from balcony tomatoes, from weeds in cracked parking decks. They turn ruin into amber patience.

By noon the tank mirrors clouds like slow fish. I taste summer from a wooden spoon, warm and electric. Sirens pass beneath us, thinned to red thread. Above them, the bees keep stitching the day together.