Golden rows stand tall in the field, whispering secrets of the harvest. I dance within the kettle, and pop to bring joy on nights of flickering screens.

I can secure and hold mighty things of stature, trace me back and find out where you came from.

It helps living creatures navigate. Only perceived in a small window of its true possibilities. Impossible to see in its extremities. Some things need it, to live, more than others

I shoot colourful soggy arrows at pots of gold.

What is orange and sounds like a parrot?