Rooftop Apiary at Dusk

On the twelfth-floor roof, the hives breathe warm cedar. Traffic below braids its iron river through glass canyons. Bees lift like punctuation from the comb, small commas stitching dusk to the last heat of stone.

A florist rinses buckets in the alley; water rings tin. The smell of basil climbs fire escapes. Each worker returns with pollen saddlebags of gold dust, as if carrying sunlight home in separate pockets.

When wind arrives, it turns laundry into pale flags. The skyline leans closer, listening. Inside the boxes, a language of wings thickens and thins, a choir tuning itself around one dark sweetness.

Night settles its blue hand over antennas and vents. Windows kindle, one by one, like patient stars. I stand with honey on my thumb and sirens far away, learning how a city can keep a field inside it.