Blue Hour Apiary

On the grocery roof, the hives open like matchboxes of sun. Commuter trains drag iron wind along the river. Each bee lifts a shard of yellow from balcony marigolds. Even the antennas lean closer, listening for nectar.

I stand between ductwork and satellite dishes, where heat from the bakery rises in slow, sugared weather. The queen is invisible, a rumor of warm gravity, and the workers map circles on the evening air.

Below us, crosswalks blink their patient constellations; a child drops a peach pit into a storm drain and laughs. Pollen dust clings to my sleeves like borrowed gold, as if the city itself had brushed against an orchard.

When night comes, the hive hum deepens to cello, a held note under sirens, under late delivery trucks. I close the lid and carry the sound downstairs, one small summer still burning in a wooden box.