I fall from clouds in violent streaks, yet live in walls where silence speaks. Wild, I burn; controlled, I serve, the same force, bound and observed.

Sitting idle, ever weary, weaving and bobbing, all without training. I wait for food; it comes to me. My trap ensnares, then I feed. Hairy and scary, people don’t like me, but don’t kill me off, as I balance nature.

I’m a plant that’s purple and prickly to touch. I grow in fields and don’t like much fuss. Careful where you grab I’m sharp, not gentle.

I give you wings but can’t truly fly. I’m also famous for a question no one can answer. What am I?

I shape deserts and forests, using storms and calm seas alike. People try to predict me, but I can change in an instant. And even though I am not alive, I decide what you wear, where you live and travel, and even how you live.