I am not a blanket, yet I cover the ground; a crystal from heaven that doesn't make a sound. What am I?

In winter's crisp air, I take flight, Gaining might as I roll with delight. Cold in the making, But warmth I'm faking, A round delight with pure, fluffy white.

Feathered travelers in V formation, honking like a traffic jam above, migrating in rhythm with the seasons' dance.

I help plants climb up toward the sky, I’m like a wall, but holes go by. I’m criss and cross, a wooden net, What am I that flowers can’t forget?

The answer to which came first. Scientifically speaking