Apiary Above the Traffic

At dawn the rooftops steam like open kettles. Between satellite dishes, wooden hives hold their breath of amber weather, while buses below drag sparks through puddles.

The keeper lifts each frame with surgeon hands; wax cities shine, six-sided and precise. Bees write gold commas in the cool air, pausing on his sleeve as if reading him.

From this height, the avenue is a river of horns, yet here the wings make a smaller orchestra: a tremolo around thyme in cracked planters, a cello-note when one bee lands in my tea.

By noon the skyline tastes of warmed metal and clover. Jars fill slowly, sunlight thickening to syrup. We carry summer down the stairwell in glass, and the building hums long after we leave.