Tiny bearer of a towering load, I walk in lines along the road. I farm and herd beneath your feet, Where fallen crumbs become a feast. A borrowed hill becomes my haunt Name the creature, small yet gaunt.

I hold ideas, in spiral, three ring, glued spine. Closed, your dreams stay safe.

When water does this it is a place to see, when rocks do this it is a place to avoid. I am an orthopedist’s favorite season and a senior citizen’s least. I sound like a horse in a different stage of life.

Many people think I cannot swim, but I move and flutter in the sea. Some say New England makes the best things out of me.

In a tunnel of darkness lies a beast of iron. It can only attack when pulled back. What is it?