At the Rooftop Apiary in November

Before dawn the city is a closed accordion, roof vents breathing metal sleep. I climb to the hives with a bucket of warm syrup, and the sky unwraps one thin blue vein.

Bees move slowly, amber punctuation across combs that smell of rain-soaked cedar. Their bodies keep the memory of August orchards, a low chord held under my gloves.

Below us, buses spark and kneel at curbs, neon puddles stitch the avenues. Here, wax brightens like chapel candles, and every wingbeat edits the cold.

When sun finally touches the water towers the whole roof hums, alive as a tuning fork. I leave with honey on my sleeve and wind in my teeth, carrying summer's small engine into noon.