Only one color, but not one size, stuck at the bottom, yet easily flies, present in sun, but not in rain, doing no harm, and feeling no pain.

I make castles, but I do not make solid structures. People often Bathe upon me.

if you have a windless august, what precious thing are you left with?

I fall with no wound, yet I bury the land, A fleeting dominion of bone-white command. I silence the forest, I soften the stone, But fade into nothing when warmth claims its throne. What am I?

I make a good scramble, but I am not made of man. You might see me in coop or a pen or a house per chance.