A bridge in the sky, Hues born of Apollo's tears, After storm's fierce cry.

My flesh is sweet, my skin is thin, I have a stone, but no original sin. A purple blush on a summer day, I turn to prunes when taken away. What am I?

On all eights, it moves around. It can even go on walls, all without making a sound. It spin its home, like a white nest. And some kids would hate seeing it in the corner of their room.

Big or small, square or round, bundled neatly on the ground. I bask in fields to dry and pale, then feed the beasts from trough or pail. Through winter’s chill, I earn my keep, their midday meal when grass must sleep.

I make trees look fuller, but I am not made of bark or wood. You might see me in your yard after wind, or during Autumn.