Paper becomes crane A short trip across a long space-time plane Giving up the poker game

I exist in a street, but I do not get used for cars. You might see me in the steps you take to cross the street.

A touch, a swat, a passing glance, to pat at dust upon your pants. An action made quite idly, with no regard for much U see A tool for moving colored tints, or fixing locks upset by wind. A dry or nappy piece of wood, found aside not used for good

I am shaped by needles, but I do not hurt. People often dress me.

I stand alone where life feels dry, A silent guard beneath wide sky. I drink just once, then hold it tight, And bear my swords without a fight.