Rooftop Apiary at Dusk

On the grocery roof, the hives breathe cedar and sun. Freight trains drag a silver chord through evening. Bees lift from the comb like commas of amber light, editing the long sentence of the city.

Below them, traffic foams at red lights, helmets, umbrellas, steam from noodle carts. Each worker returns with dust on her knees, a yellow rumor gathered from balcony basil.

When wind crosses billboards, it tastes of rain and copper. The keeper opens a frame; the air turns orchestral, wax crescents, hexagons bright as small cathedrals, honey thickening around the hour’s last heat.

Night leans in; windows bloom one by one. The bees settle, a low electric psalm. In the dark, jars cool on the sill, holding tomorrow’s flowers in their gold sleep.