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

I make your cheeks burn, though no fire is near. A silent recoil, a visceral fear. A cultural faux pas, held ever so dear.

I set boundaries. I surround the dearly departed. I'm white on black or green. I'm sometimes seen on the sidewalk, in various colors. People use me to secure a hold on equipment.

Billy Joel and Elton John, or the guys who provided the music in western bars