Rooftop Apiary at Dusk

On the twentieth floor, the hives breathe warm against metal rails slick with evening rain. Traffic below loosens into a river of wires, and each bee lifts gold from the bruise-blue air.

They return dusted with park pollen, tiny astronauts docking by instinct and hum. My gloves smell of cedar smoke and oranges; the skyline listens, all glass and held breath.

In the comb, light is being translated into rooms, into winter, into sweetness we can keep. Hexagon by hexagon, the city learns how patience sounds when given wings.

Night climbs the stairwell and finds us working. I seal the frames, and the moon leans closer, a pale coin over antennas and laundry lines. Somewhere below, a child tastes summer from a spoon.