Rooftop Apiary, Blue Hour

Before sunrise the roofs are sheets of tin and dew, I unclip the hive and a warm animal hum spills into the cold, gold as engine oil in first light, while trains below drag sparks through the river fog.

The bees lift like punctuation from a dark sentence, commaing the air around satellite dishes and laundry lines; their bodies carry maps the city forgot, routes between basil flowers and cracked concrete planters.

From the twelfth floor, wind tastes of copper and rain. A child on a balcony waves a red spoon, and for a second the whole block listens to thousands of wings tuning the morning open.

By noon the honey in frames is amber weather, stored sunlight, brick dust, trumpet vine, and thunder. I close the lid softly, as if on a library book, and leave the roof brighter than when I arrived.