I reflect the world while holding only air. I travel briefly before dying with a touch.

So many of us and no two alike, together we blanket hills and fields What a wonderful time for a hike Don't forget your mittens!

I am the verb the garden depends on. A ritual repeated, never done. I am not the liquid, but the act itself. Put me before can and I name the tool I use.

I am not a plant, though gardens drown in me. I have no veins, yet I bleed the sky. I am countless, yet singularly blamed. I feast without a mouth, kill without a hand, and when I rule, oceans go silent. What am I?

Common in ladies, almost never in males, distinct inkblot spots, patchwork, head to coat-tails. Internationally lucky and beloved by lots, Don't call creature's name, But the paint-job of blots!