Citrus on the Tar

Morning unrolls from the river like linen, and the city’s vents breathe in a low, warm choir. On the roof, the hives open their gold mouths, steam lifting as if from a kettle of light.

The keeper’s hands are slow with smoke and patience; he speaks in a language of brush and hum. Bees draw soft ellipses around his wrists, orbits of sugar, of weather, of time.

Below, traffic is a braided current of gray, but here the wind tastes of crushed basil and tin. A stray petal lands on the landing board, a small sail choosing the calm of work.

By noon the jars will hold a captured sun, amber hush thick with rooftops and rain. We will spoon it into tea and remember a sky we never climbed, a sweetness that did.