Head of a duck Body of a bear Legs of a wasp Feet of a hawk

I'm a paradox in a shell, formed without life, yet life may dwell. Break me, and a meal appears, or potential futures become clear. What am I?

I am the cockerel that never crows, a letter or two for every way the wind blows.

Some consider it the voice of God, A warning they say Others experience it through power moves by S. G-A. No matter what you think or have been told, it’s never far from a flash or a bolt.

In the orchard's gentle sway, a scent both sweet and plain, Crafted by the orchid's lore, its essence doth remain. A silent symphony it plays, in nature's quiet hall, A subtle whisper on the breeze, unites the great and small.