Atlas of the Rooftop Bees

On the roof, the hives are small planets, spinning a weather of gold inside their ribs. The city below is a tide of glass, and each window holds a different dusk.

A delivery drone hums past like a tired comet, air trembling with its mechanical throat. Bees map the slipstreams, remember where the wind keeps warm hands.

I lay my ear to the tar, a patient stone, listening for the slow engine of bloom. The honey combs are lanterns you can taste, amber pages stitched with tiny wings.

Night opens its coat of graphite and salt. Somewhere, a siren learns a softer scale. The hives keep writing their quiet atlas, one bright coordinate at a time.