Rooftop Apiary at Dusk

Above the laundromat, hives hum like tuned wires, small engines of amber lifting from tar and vent heat, while the city exhales bus brakes, rain-metal, oregano smoke, and evening opens its blue instrument case.

A beekeeper in paint-splashed gloves tilts each frame, and honey shines, a slow cathedral of sun remembered; bees write cursive around her wrists, dark commas stitching air to skin.

Across the avenue, windows ignite one by one, a constellation learning its own name; inside, kettles whistle, shoes are dropped at doors, and every kitchen keeps a weather of steam and garlic.

Night climbs the brick in patient increments. From the roof, the hives settle to a low golden chord, as if the stars had lowered themselves to listen, as if sweetness were a language we almost still speak.