Rooftop Apiary, 2 A.M.

The elevator opens like a held breath, and the roof is a dark lake of tar and tin. Between satellite dishes, white hive boxes glow, small moons crowded close to the chimney heat.

I lift each lid and the air turns to velvet noise, a hundred tiny motors tuning the same chord. Wax smells of summer fields no map can find here, though taxis pour below like molten yellow ore.

Smoke from the can drifts thin as handwriting, and the bees move over my gloves, deliberate, warm. Their bodies catch the city light and return it, amber commas punctuating the sleepless wind.

Before dawn, I seal the frames of new honey, thick with linden, rust, and rain-soaked brick. In every jar, the avenue keeps humming, a boulevard dissolved into gold and bloom.