Rooftop Apiary at Dusk

On the hospital roof, the hives hum like small engines, amber workers crossing satellite dishes and rain gutters, their wings stitching evening to steel, while below, elevators carry midnight up and down.

A nurse on break peels an orange with slow hands, citrus light spilling over her knuckles, and one bee circles the rind as if reading a map drawn in oils, in sun, in memory of orchards.

Smoke from the keeper's tin can drifts thin as prayer, city sirens bend around it, briefly softened, honey frames lift out, warm as held stones, gold speaking in a language older than traffic.

When night arrives, the skyline switches to constellations, windows bloom and close, bloom and close, and in their wooden dark the bees keep fanning, cooling tomorrow for strangers they will never meet.