Rooftop Apiary in March

On the twelfth floor, the hives hum beside antennae, gold wires of afternoon combing glass towers. A beekeeper lifts smoke like a small weather system, and traffic below changes lanes without knowing.

Each bee returns wearing the city as pollen: gingko dust, bakery steam, rust from fire escapes. They map the air with invisible blueprints, hexagons opening wherever sunlight settles.

In the comb, syrup darkens into midnight amber. Sirens pass, then fade into the drone of wings. Evening lays copper on every window, as if the whole block were a field remembering clover.

When night finally buttons the roofs shut, the hives keep speaking in warm, precise murmurs. I lean near and hear a future being stored: summer, translated into jars of light.