I hang in soft clusters from branch tips in early light, Neither flower nor fruit, yet carrying the future. Wind is my messenger, pollen my only voice. Willow, birch, and oak all know my shape.

What is a penguin's default method of travel?

Breaching hulls, bashing ships It’s not as friendly as it seems Floating fish, massive citys Nothing may stand against it’s wrathful face Some call them rogues, others freaks Sometimes tsunamis Sometimes ripples Often lapping gently on the shore

In fields of green, I stand so bright, A golden sun in morning's light. With wishes blown, I take to flight, A gentle puff, I'm gone from sight.

I am a primary color that reminds you of the sun I am bright, and citrusy