I spread my limbs up to the air My children fall upon the ground Or do I tint a coat of mare? A tired joke gone round and round But you'd be wrong If you had thunk I was a loon Inside a trunk

I race with thunder but I always go first, I light up the clouds like they’re ready to burst.

I’m tiny and I crawl, In a long busy line, not tall. I carry food that’s hard to lift, To my home where crumbs we gift. Who am I?

Golden chambers, sweetly filled, where buzzing architects tirelessly build. A waxy palace, hexagonal and neat, a place where liquid gold finds its seat.

Born of heat and effort, it beads on brows like nature's diamonds, a testament to toil or thrill, whispering of hard work beneath the sun.