Green whisperer in the crisper, a crunchy symphony in a stalk. It flavors soups and stuffings, and serves as a place where ant rest instead of walk.

Encased in history a long, long time ago, I am the ancestors of modern day warfare. I pierce the air, hard as stone, finishing one off with a final blow. One hand can guide my way, but once you wish, I won’t delay.

I resemble the sound of thunder, but I am not a explosion. People describe me as an instrument.

I am related to airplanes and jets, but I am not earthbound; unlike them, i am free. People often watch me take off, or go see the moon with me.

Add a step and I become shorter, but take away my last three letters and I become a young man. A companion reaching high roofs, or when building with a plan.