Answer:
My keepers feed me colored balls. With sticks they store on my den walls. Sometimes I store them in my pouch. Sometimes deep in my belly; ouch!
In my yard there's a bed with no pillows a trunk with no clothes a branch with no leaves. What am I looking at?
I am the black child of a white father a wingless bird flying even to the clouds of heaven. I give birth to tears of mourning in pupils that meet me even though there is no cause for grief and at once on my birth I am dissolved into air.
I am black of eye and bright of hair. I fast into the ground and follow my lord as he races around the world. What am I?
I am what no man ever yet did see, which never was, but always is to be. What am I?
It flows out of the soil, It burns you if it boils, And holds us in its coils, More valuable than gold, As black as it is old.