A soft circumference at the throat. Twin woven lengths descending without order.

I'm a cradle and a safe shelter for helpless younglings and their elder. Made of sticks, scraps and feathers, high above I protect them from predators.

Stain signs are left where my teeth bite Like feathers flew so pen could cite A hundred such pens within my cavity Each and every type in continuity One single sign each owns till the end Together is how their purpose mend. Fabulous tool, arent I?

I bite the earth but have no teeth, I dig up secrets buried beneath. In gardens and graves, I earn my trade. Tell me, friend, what am I made?

Take off my skin and I won't cry, but you will! What am I?