Rooftop Apiary

On the reservoir roof, the city keeps bees. Hives warm like brass instruments in morning fog. Each comb holds a map of alleys and linden trees, a gold grammar spoken without tongues.

Couriers unclip helmets, lift lids, listen— the air inside thrums like a struck cello string. Smoke drifts blue as laundry over satellite dishes; workers taste July from a wooden spoon.

By noon, traffic hardens below into chrome rivers. Up here, queens move slowly through candlelit architecture. Pollen dusts our wrists, soft as library chalk, and every hand gesture becomes careful, ceremonial.

At dusk the skyline drinks its own neon. Bees return carrying sunset in their knees. We seal the boxes; the hum goes on in the dark, a small republic rehearsing tomorrow.