ArchitectureBest to think of them as one—each
small muscle clinging to the hive front in a July sun, fanning the body into breeze. Each impulse traveling the synaptic gap from comb to stamen and back. Inside, they flow in erythrocyte waves. Listen. It is pulse and beat, hush in your ears when you are thinking of silence. True silence is a hive starved out. Lift a frame to the sun: bees bent head-first in the hexagons, the wax stained with absent honey. Their abdomens stripe the light and glow empty, cathedral glass once almost something beloved.
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