Let me and my Bambis exist in peace in the woods. If you don’t, you risk getting fatally impaled with one of these.

I’m a home where feathers dwell, Where wings may flutter, chirp, and swell. I have no nests upon the tree, Yet many birds may live in me. My walls keep wandering wings in sight, A little kingdom built for flight. What am I?

I go down deep into the well, And bring back stories I cannot tell. I swing and sway on a rope so tight, Full of water, a heavy sight.

Phonetic to an improper tense that means ‘I am the champ’. Twisting gears if it’s done up. Down-time so turn off lamps. Its other form, a measured chill. Grinds a grain upon a hill. A breaker worn. A chime that trills. Without it, all that’s left is, still.

A mountain’s child, a river’s slave, I skip the lake to find my grave. What am I?