I have a spine, but no bones to bear, Pages I hold, a story to share. With lines to fill, or sketches to make, What am I, for goodness sake?

My many teeth are dull and neat, yet through soft strands they’re quick to sweep. Or with great care I search each place, until what’s lost I finally trace.

What is blue and smells like red paint??

My feathers mirror moonless skies, yet clever thoughts fill watchful eyes. I speak in calls and borrowed sound, wherever forest paths are found.

Zombies would probably like the look of these nuts