I can be the beginning of a duplicitous game or a potentially shady company A shy soul may not want to come out of my embrace I can also be a discarded home found on a sandy beach

What do you call a snail working on a ship?

A shield of fabric in your hand, When skies weep, I take my stand. Above your head, I spread wide, To keep you dry from teardrop tide.

My subjects are honest they say what they are, A buzz, a splash, a rumble from afar. This strange magic when sound becomes word, Yet my own spelling trips every tongue.

Fly me and you’ll lose a friend, Yet I am happiest on the wind. I pull against what holds me tight, A rebel shape against the light.