I stand in the forest, though I have no leaves of my own, I ride in the back of your car, wherever you roam. I am the long nose of a beast who is massive and gray, And you pack me with clothes when you're going away.

I grow a fuzzy coat but never feel cold, and hide a little stone that I stubbornly hold.

This word is one. But split in two: A friendly fight, kept in line-none askew. Of seven, the first three tend to get their own day. Skip one letter. The last three: Done to propel away.

I am the swiftest thief of night, Yet I am weightless, thin, and bright. I pass through glass to bring you sight, And chase the shadows with my might. I fade away when comes the night, But paint the morning crisp and white. What am I?

My face looks at the sky, my finger points but never touches. I whisper the hour without a sound. What am I?