Bells for Beringia

 My children are little bells
 Chiming in laughter selected
 By tipsy rangers from the air itself.
 Outside they trip through the leaves
 Chirping like birds, tolling for the wind,
 Small voices carried aloft

 By the cold north wind
 Moving down the timberland coast,
 Turbulent vortices pivoting the trees.
 In tandem they laugh, unburdened,
 Tinkling in windrush drummed by branches,
 Swirls of gold and red and yellow
 Storming their fortresses of fall.
 A sound so delicate
 That the gods strain to hear

 Through whistling torrent of jet stream,
 Soaring melodies lifted 

 To the tip of heaven.