Rooftop Apiary at Dusk

Above the laundromat, the hives breathe cedar and sun, small republics of gold threading the evening air. Traffic below keeps striking its iron chord, while wings write cursive over satellite dishes.

A keeper lifts a frame and the city sweetens. Honey gathers light the way old glass does, amber holding a thousand brief afternoons, a slow music poured from bloom to bloom.

On neighboring roofs, tomatoes lean in buckets, basil shivers beside a rusted vent. The bees pass over brick, antenna, billboard, mapping a tenderness no map app can hold.

Night comes in blue layers, then indigo. Windows wake like stacked constellations, and in each hive a soft mechanical hymn turns darkness into warmth, and warmth into morning.