The Rooftop Apiary

Above the traffic's iron breathing, boxes hum, small weathered churches for a winged congregation. Smoke curls like a handwritten prayer, and the keeper's veil is a soft eclipse.

The city below keeps mispronouncing silence— sirens, bus brakes, late-night laughter. Yet up here, pollen dusts the palms, golden as old coins, warm as bread.

In the comb, light is stored in architecture, hexagon after hexagon, a deliberate storm. They sew the day into sweetness, and stitch the dusk shut with their bodies.

I lean close, hear a map without borders, a compass that points to wherever a flower opens. The air tastes of rust and chamomile, and I carry their music down the stairs.