I make sweet jams, but I do not make music. People often wait until summer for me.

I am the dead sentinel, standing watch over the golden plains. Although I do not move, I fight my eternal enemy, the murderous black tide.

Though bound to the ground I still am free, dancing amid the blue. Though I can’t reach heights all on my own, for that, I require you.

I am not alive, but I grow. I don’t have lungs, but I need air. I have no mouth, but water kills me. What am I?

In a flock of brethren, I arrive. In shallow waters, I take a dive. I come out with a fish to eat, then on the beach I rest my feet.