A cousin of the mighty Rex, I weigh in smaller, but mayhap meaner. Steven Spielberg made a movie star of my siblings and me, do we star in your nightmares now? Little kids wear me on their jammies, but if they met me they’d run away screaming. Birds are now my closest kin, to them I bequeathed my feathers and skin.

I fall from clouds in violent streaks, yet live in walls where silence speaks. Wild, I burn; controlled, I serve, the same force, bound and observed.

Sitting idle, ever weary, weaving and bobbing, all without training. I wait for food; it comes to me. My trap ensnares, then I feed. Hairy and scary, people don’t like me, but don’t kill me off, as I balance nature.

I’m a plant that’s purple and prickly to touch. I grow in fields and don’t like much fuss. Careful where you grab I’m sharp, not gentle.

I give you wings but can’t truly fly. I’m also famous for a question no one can answer. What am I?