Though I look dry, I am mostly water. Tiny explosions frozen in time and forest. Drown and brown me in butter, Heat me and eat me.

I describe the movement of a gigantic rock. Never associate me with the speed of a hawk. I am best illustrated as stored away stock.

Made from juice, not solid fruit, I'm spread upon a bed of bread. If I blow your taste brain, Your legs will aptly quiver.

I lived. I died. I turned to stone. Now time has made my silence known.

I'm pushed through the lowest streets in Venice, and pulled up to snowy peaks.