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The sun going down is lost in the gorge to the south,
lost in the rows of olive trees, light in the webs of their limbs.

This is the time when the thousands and thousands come home.
It is not the time for the keeper’s veil and gloves,

not the time for stoking the smoker with pine needles.
It would be better to do that at midday, under a hot sun,

when the precincts are quieter; it would be better to disturb
few rather than many. At noon, the hives are like villages,

gates opened toward the sun, or like small countries
carved from empires to keep the peace, each with its habits—

some ruled better by better queens, some frantic and uncertain,
some with drifting populations, others busy with robbing,

and even the wasps and hornets, the fierce invaders who have settled
among the natives, are involved in the ancient trades.