Rooftop Apiary at Dusk

Above laundromats, the hives hum like small engines of amber. Heat lifts from tar paper in soft wavering sheets. Bees stitch the last light to buckets of basil and rusted railings. The city exhales through vents, warm and metallic.

A keeper in denim opens a lid as if unsealing weather. Smoke curls, blue as a river seen from far away. Frames rise dripping gold, each cell a hex of held afternoon. Somewhere below, a siren bends and disappears.

Pollen dust freckles the cuffs of her hands. She moves slowly, teaching the air not to panic. Around us, antennas lean like reeds in electric wind, and windows ignite one by one, square moons.

Night comes carrying the smell of mint and brake pads. The hive folds inward, a low orchestra tuning in the dark. Tomorrow these bees will map the cracked avenues again. Tonight they sleep with the taste of clover under their wings.