Apiary Above the Rain

On the twelfth floor, morning opens like a wet match, and the rooftop hives breathe out a low bronze chord. Smoke curls from a tin can, soft as old wool, while traffic below keeps striking its iron piano.

The keeper lifts each frame as if turning a psalter, amber script trembling between wax and wing. Bees stitch gold commas through the steam of his breath, and the skyline leans closer, glass full of weather.

Rain begins, thin needles tapping the lids, yet the swarm writes on, patient as monks. Each drop brightens the tar to a black river, carrying reflected billboards into the comb.

By noon, jars line the parapet like captured suns. He palms one warm with the work of a thousand throats, and somewhere a siren fades into honeyed distance, as if the city itself had found a sweeter mouth.