Wax After Rain

On the roof, the hive opens its small amber library, each comb a map of weather held in a child's hand. Rain beads on the tar like a second sky, and the bees move through it as if remembering fire.

The city below is still wearing its wet coat. Windows lift their pale faces, one by one, while the exhaust fans unspool their tired blue psalms into the air that tastes faintly of iron and mint.

A woman in a yellow slicker stands by the parapet, listening to the hive's low orchard of wings. She carries a jar of honey warm as old sunlight, and the spoon inside it trembles like a narrow bell.

By noon, the storm will have gone elsewhere, but the roof will keep its polish of rain. Even now the first bees return with silvered legs, bringing back the day's small gold from the dark.