I rise from earth, but not too high, beneath the ever-open sky. Smaller than giants capped with snow, yet still a place where climbers go.

I am called The King of the Jungle but do not actually live in the jungle.

I am a structure in parks, gardens, or town squares where water rises into the air and then falls back down in a graceful flow. People often toss coins into me and make wishes. I decorate public spaces and can cool the air on hot days. What am I?

I hold your books, I hold your elf. When I am made of flat rock, you call me continental.

Golden grains in endless dance, shifting with the wind's soft trance. Castles rise then swiftly fall, yet always present, a desert's sprawl.