Night Shift of the Beehives

On the hospital roof, hives thrum like low violins. Nurses trade their break-room light for moonlight and steam. The city below keeps opening and closing its metal flowers. Ambulances stitch white thread through the avenues.

A beekeeper in a yellow veil lifts one frame, and the comb glows amber, a held sunset. Bees write dark commas across her wrists, punctuating the air with tiny insistences.

From vents, warm breath rises, carrying antiseptic and rain. The colonies drink it, turn it into summer. Somewhere a child exhales from under anesthesia; somewhere else dawn rehearses behind the water towers.

By morning, jars line the pharmacy window, honey bright as brass, labeled only Rooftop. People taste clover, rust, and lightning. No one can name the sweetness, only stand quieter after.