In cauldrons of aqua, a green spirit’s delight, A cleansing specter, unseen by night. Humble alchemist of water's rebirth, Its touch turns murk to purity, for what it's worth.

I have a spin, but I am not in a dance. I make food smooth, but I don't chew. What am I?

I have no tongue, but I can tell tales of arrivals. I have no voice of my own, yet I mimic chimes and buzzes. I am mounted but never ride. What am I?

THESE CHURN AIR The letters above will help you find, A pair of words that bring to mind, Massive storms over land and sea. Tell me now, what can they be?

A slender thing with silent might it rests in hand yet shapes the night it has no voice yet speaks with will it bends the air and time stands still no blade it bears yet cuts through fear no engine hums yet draws things near in stories old and games of play it guides the path and shows the way it channels thought through wood or core a simple stick yet so much more what am i that holds such grace a quiet tool with power in place.