Archive of Bees

The orchard keeps its quiet furniture of light, ladder rungs of sun laid over moss, and in each blossom a small rehearsal of thunder that never breaks, only vibrates.

I watch the bees clock their routes by scent, filing like ink through the white rooms of petals, touching each threshold and leaving a signature so fine it cannot be seen, only lived.

Somewhere a wind lifts the hill like a sleeve, shakes out a soft rain of pollen— half gold, half breath— and the air remembers a language without vowels.

By evening, the hive has stored a library of the day: waxed cells brimming with summer’s low notes. I stand at the edge, a visitor to their archive, hearing the pages hum as they turn.