My feathers mirror moonless skies, yet clever thoughts fill watchful eyes. I speak in calls and borrowed sound, wherever forest paths are found.

I sit between the creature below and rider above, your tush will thank me after time on a back. With a bridle and reins, you may take control, so long as you do not sit on the horn.

Thin blonde hair that covers us all, peaches take more than their fair share.

I belong on a table, In a garden, or where one path becomes two.

I am born from stone, but I crumble to dust to leave my mark. I speak in white on walls of slate, teaching lessons or drawing games, yet the touch of a damp cloth vanishes me forever.