I glide on winter’s silver skin, yet also haunt the ocean floor. One self is steel that sings on ice, the other spreads its wings to soar.

I stand in the field and wear old clothes, but I am not a person. Birds avoid me because I look like someone watching them

I'm a tiny worker and can carry fifty times my own weight. People generally don't appreciate me though, because sometimes their homes I invade.

I've got thorns on the outside and a heart of gold, with a scent so intense that it's famously bold. I am best described as a mix between custard and onions of doom. My aroma is so pungent, I'm forbidden in many a hotel room

I am under the sea but not very deep, Sharp and colorful, where small fish sleep. Ships must avoid me or they may crash. What am I, hidden beneath the splash?