I do not tower, scrape, or loom, yet upward still I make you move. With grass or stone upon my face, I gently lift the land in place.

I require a house that you build in minutes and pack into a bag. I offer a ceiling with a billion lights, but no switches to turn them off. I bring you closer to streams, trees, and wildlife, yet my name ends with an -ing. What am I?

I’m a dance, a squirm, a playful shake, found in a worm, or a move you make.

Round and round I go, a funnel born from cloud below. I form so fast to most surprise, then sirens wail as fear will rise. I tear through all that cross my path, leaving ruin in my wrath.

I follow the moon, or does it follow me? A name for the motions of the sea Retreat and return by the time you've dried I help form the waves that surfers ride