Apiary Above the Street

At dusk the rooftops open like dark hands, and hives hum warm against satellite dishes. Honey-light gathers in the seams of tar, while traffic below drags its iron river home.

A keeper lifts each frame as if turning a page, smoke thin as winter breath, veil lit by neon. Thousands of wings stitch gold into the wind, and the skyline listens, suddenly orchard-quiet.

On balconies, basil leans toward the sound. Children taste evening from wooden spoons, sticky, bright, a map of clover and rust, summer translated into the language of mouths.

By night, the bees fold back into their dark cathedral; windows bloom one by one across the avenue. Above them, jars cool on a concrete ledge, holding tomorrow in small amber weather.