Apiary on the Roof

Atop the library, hives breathe cedar and sun. Elevators sigh below like deep brass lungs. Bees lift from their doors, gold commas in warm air, punctuating noon above the traffic's long sentence.

They map the city by sugar and rust, skim neon puddles on billboards after rain, thread between antennas that hum with weather reports, come home dusted in pollen and static.

At dusk the keeper opens a smoker like a small cloud. The skyline softens; windows become shallow lakes. Inside each frame, hexagons ring with slow thunder, a million wings tuning one invisible instrument.

Night leans over the roof and listens. Honey thickens in the dark like held light. By morning, jars will catch what streets forgot: the taste of clover, metal, and summer wind.