I have no tongue, but I can tell tales of arrivals. I have no voice of my own, yet I mimic chimes and buzzes. I am mounted but never ride. What am I?

It can build a nest Or a fire Either way for it to be best More than one, you'll require

Spun fine into thread. In beds. Under heads. Looming white, like a moonlight stead. Make your pick, before the seed-wind spreads. Fibrous from nature. Polyester it dreads.

On your head I often sit, a crown of sorts, a perfect fit. Shield from sun or rain I might, or simply add a touch of delight.

Silent sentinels that guard against the sun's relentless gaze, their slats whisper secrets of shadow and light, dancing to the rhythm of the wandering breeze.