Rooftop Apiary in April

Above the laundromat, the hives wake first, cedar boxes sweating amber at the seams. Morning unbuttons itself on the tar roof, and the city lifts its thousand aluminum petals.

Bees rise through steam from the bakery vents, tiny ferrymen crossing warm currents of yeast. Their flight stitches the billboards to the church spire, gold thread pulled through the gray sleeve of dawn.

I stand in the veil, listening to their weather. Each body carries a rumor of pear blossom, a field translated into muscle and fur, spring spoken here in a language of vectors.

By noon the skyline tastes faintly of clover. Windows burn white, then soften into honey. Even the sirens pass with pollen on their tongues, and the roof keeps shining, a small sun underfoot.