Apiary Above the Avenue

At dawn the rooftops lift their tin eyelids, and a low gold weather hums from wooden boxes. Bees pour out like punctuation marks editing the city's breath.

Laundry snaps on neighboring lines, shirts becoming sails for invisible ships. From tar-warmed gravel, thyme in a paint bucket throws tiny green flares into the wind.

The keeper moves slowly, moon-suited and patient, smoke unspooling from his hand like a soft command. Around his veil, the swarm writes circles no map can keep, only the body can hear.

By evening, jars line up on the sill, sunset caught in each amber lung. Down on the avenue, sirens pass like rain, and above them, sweetness keeps working in the dark.