Aerial Cartographers

On the roof, the hives are warm lanterns, cedar boxes drinking the last of the sun. Below, the avenues thrum like bass strings, and the bees launch, ink dots in the amber air.

They read the city's breath as weather, threading between glass and steam. Their dance is a map of invisible alleys, a grammar of pollen and radio static.

At night the jars glow on the counter, honey holding a soft metallic light. We taste summer's circuitry and clover, and the hum returns, low and faithful, in the dark.