I start as stone beneath the ground, yet end up flat and thin. A roof may wear me overhead, or chalk may mark my skin.

I slide over snow but I have no wheels. You can sit on me and ride down a hill. What am I?

Most animals have them, we just have the bone, The kind of story that has never been shown.

The river never plans to fall the cliff just ends its way. What follows fills the valley floor with thunder, mist, and spray.

I’m built with care, but not by hand, I’m woven where the branches stand. A cozy home, both warm and small, A shelter where the young ones call. Twigs and feathers make my wall, I keep my little guests from fall. I’m not a house, yet home I’m called, Where eggs lie safe and dreams unfold. I cradle life, but never roam, Among the leaves, I make my home. What am I, hidden in a tree, A little cradle for all to see?