Rooftop Apiary at Dusk

On the twelfth floor, the hives lean into evening, their cedar walls breathing heat stored all day. Glass towers hold the last orange like lanterns, and a soft cloud of wings writes cursive over tar.

Down below, buses groan through puddled intersections; up here, thyme in cracked planters keeps its small republic. Bees return dusted with the grammar of wildflowers that somehow survived between rails and loading docks.

I lift the lid and the air becomes a low chord, honey and rain and metal, one bright note. Each comb glows like a map of stubborn countries, hexagons stitched from appetite and weather.

Night arrives, patient as ink in water. Windows blink on, constellation by constellation. In the darkened hive, the colony braids its warmth, turning city noise into amber for tomorrow.