Rooftop Apiary at 2 A.M.

The city exhales through vents and laundry wires. On the twelfth floor, hives hold their small weather. Each box hums like a violin tuning in the dark. Neon spills over the frames in diluted blue.

I lift the lid; warm wax breathes out honey and rain. Thousands of wings fold around my flashlight, a living shawl of amber intent, as if midnight itself had learned to pollinate.

Below, sirens comb the avenues for trouble. Up here, queens pace their golden arithmetic. Pollen clings to my sleeves like bright dust from another planet, and the moon hangs low, a thumbprint on steel.

By dawn the skyline softens to peach and tin. The bees rise first, stitching light between antennas. I seal the hive and taste one drop on my wrist: summer distilled from concrete, patient and wild.