Answer:
White bird, featherless, flying out of paradise. Flying over sea and land. Dying in my hand.
A nut cracker up in a tree.
When can someone truthfully tell someone βwell doneβ but think they did a bad job?
Long and slinky like a trout, never sings till it's guts come out.
I am the outstretched fingers that seize and hold the wind. Wisdom flows from me in other hands. Upon me are sweet dreams, my merest touch brings laughter
What covers its face with its hands, speaks no language, yet most known what it's saying?