Rooftop Apiary in April

At dawn the city unbuttons its neon coat, steam lifts from vents like pale horses. On the eleventh floor, six painted boxes hum as if a small orchestra were tuning to light.

Bees rise through laundry lines and satellite dishes, gold commas stitching air between antennas. Their wings strike the morning into thin silver, and every balcony plant leans closer to listen.

Below, buses drag blue rain along the avenue, coffee carts bloom their bitter constellations. Above, the workers map the wind with their bodies, returning dusted in pollen the color of warm bread.

By noon, honey gathers in the comb's dark grammar, sunset rehearses already in each cell. I lift one frame and the whole roof brightens, a field hidden inside concrete learning my name.