Rooftop Apiary in Late April

Above the laundromat, the hives keep their small republic, cedar boxes warming in the last brass of day. Traffic below unspools its dark ribbon of impatience; here, the air tastes of thyme someone planted in cracked buckets.

Bees come home dusted with pollen, little monks of gold, shouldering the evening through the comb's narrow doors. The skyline leans close, all window and weather, listening to their low engine work the light into sweetness.

I lift one frame and the city changes temperature. Wax glows like held breath. Honey gathers with the patience of old glass filling with sun, while sirens pass far off like spoons drawn around a bowl.

Night climbs the brick in blue increments. The hive settles into its many-throated dreaming, and even the antennas seem tender for a moment, as if every roof were learning how to flower.