I appear in a storm, but I am not a lake. You might see me in the street, but gone the next day.

I run but don't walk. I have a bed, yet I cannot sleep.

You need me to live, too much and you’ll die. I walk across the Earth’s sky. There’s less of me when you fly high.

I’m black and white, I’m cute but I’ll fight. I roll around with little care, You might want to hug me but you shouldn’t dare.

I make sweet jams, but I do not make music. People often wait until summer for me.