I have ears, but I do not have hearing. I am known for Being at thanksgiving .

I move without legs, yet I run. I hold no shape, yet I cradle the sun. I vanish to rise and return in disguise. I’m the softest of whispers and the mightiest cries.

I am the artist of time, the sculptor of fate, The whisper of dawn when midnight is late. Some chase me, some dread me, yet all will agree Without my touch, what’s meant to be, will never be.

I’m something that would bother you when encountered in a computer program, and you would not want to feel me crawling on your skin. What am I?

I stand tall in golden fields, my kernels whisper secrets of harvest meals.