Apiary at Dusk

On the rooftop, evening opens like a brass instrument, and the hives answer in a low, electric vowel; traffic below keeps its iron pulse, while wings write small weather across the air.

I lift one frame and the comb glows amber, a city of hexagons breathing warm sugar. Each bee returns dusted with gold grammar, reading the last light with their feet.

Across the river, windows strike into stars, first one, then a hundred, then a tide. Smoke from a food cart drifts up with cumin and rain, and the queen’s dark body moves like a quiet law.

Night arrives without shutting anything down: just softer engines, slower hands, cooler metal. In the hive, thousands keep fanning the dark, making from flower-ruin a sweetness that lasts.