I howl without a voice and bite without teeth. I have no lungs, yet I can breathe. I have no hands, yet I can topple trees. You can feel me, but never hold me. I travel the world but have no home. What am I?

Mist rises where I am born, yet I am not the water that falls. I appear only when light is broken, but I never make a sound. I hang in the air without weight, arched above thunder and spray. You cannot touch me, yet you can stand inside me if you find the right angle by the rushing drop. What am I?

An observer of event in the surrounding for which I boil without warning till the mercury rise or fall to whom I will call you

I sleep in stone with silent might, a buried heart of darkest night. But wake me with the furnace flame, and I will bend yet stay the same. I help your blood, I build your blade - in earth and in the forge I'm made.

Just my first three: in a pod of green. My last three: a rodent’s stash, both descend from trees. My rounds are chambered in a shell of tweed. Crack the case, of Planters’ face. The solid, not the cream.