You dip, then write with what I provide, though I sit still and hold ink inside.

What has a head, a tail, is brown, and has no legs?

Thunder does it Your hands do it Haters deserve it Antibiotics cure it You'll do it when you solve it

Small in size but built to fly, I seek a targets watchful eye. Thrown by hand with careful art, I aim to find the very heart.

I look like snow, but my colors are wrong; I fall from the air after fire burns strong. I darken the sky, and can choke the air, Waiting for the wind to carry me elsewhere.