Proud to be called A word like bald I fly, but am not a duck And appear on a buck

A crunchy serenade for whisker-clad critters, found in bowls but not for humans. It turns feline whispers into purrs of contentment, served by two-legged giants.

High or low, to be at the mercy of the moon

Small as a loaf, bright as a flame, a beak like a rainbow is part of my fame. I burrow in cliffs above cold rolling foam, what am I calling the seaside home?

A patchwork quilt of earth and green, where nature's palette dances and grows, tended by hands that coax life from soil, a living mosaic that changes with the seasons.