Apiary Above the Laundry Lines

At dawn the rooftop exhales rust and rosemary. Satellite dishes hold last night’s rain like small moons. From crates painted the color of school buses, bees lift into the traffic-light wind.

Below, sirens braid with bakery steam. A woman snaps sheets onto a trembling line; their white flags billow over the hive boxes, and pollen dust settles on cotton like gold smoke.

The keeper opens one frame as if turning a page warmed by many hands. Inside, hexagons shine with packed sunlight, tiny engines humming the city into sweetness.

By evening the skyline burns down to ember glass. Bees return heavy, deliberate, bronze. On the fire escape a child tastes honey from a spoon and learns that wildness can live above the asphalt.