I am the cockerel that never crows, a letter or two for every way the wind blows.

Some consider it the voice of God, A warning they say Others experience it through power moves by S. G-A. No matter what you think or have been told, it’s never far from a flash or a bolt.

In the orchard's gentle sway, a scent both sweet and plain, Crafted by the orchid's lore, its essence doth remain. A silent symphony it plays, in nature's quiet hall, A subtle whisper on the breeze, unites the great and small.

I am liquid on something solid, i'm tortuous and i can finish in two ways. I born in the montain and i die in the sea What am I?

You and I are always together, Though you'll only see me in fair weather. I can take any shape, long or round, Yet I can never rise from the ground. What am I?