I roll big balls of dung, songs of me are rarely sung. I can be bright and shiny, or horned, or tiny.

I draw the curtain on the sun, and wake the stars up one by one.

As a kid, this was the place to play, around your house. As an adult, it's just a hassle to maintain. As you grow older and crotchety, you yell at kids to stay off it.

High above on swaying trees, I grow where warm winds ride the breeze. Though called a nut, I wear that wrong, In halves, I mimic hoofbeats’ song.

I rise from earth, but not too high, beneath the ever-open sky. Smaller than giants capped with snow, yet still a place where climbers go.