From rooftops I may often hang, silent, cold, and sharp as a fang. Though made of water, I feel like stone, In winter’s grasp I’ve slowly grown.

I turn without legs and move the might of machines Toothed and tight I pass force between unseen means I spin with another yet keep things in line What small hard helper makes engines align?

I am spun before the wings take flight, a fragile cradle wrapped in white. Yet from those threads, so soft and fine, are woven garments fit to shine.

What do you call a toy spinning on a wannabe mountain?

Creating dancing shadows upon where light is cast this rustic flashlight is a blast from the past.