I’m public transportation for witches, and the reason dust never truly settles on the floor.

I get hot, release steam people wait patiently for me to finish. What am I?

I stop arguments before they start by politely saying, your yard ends here.

Where forests stand proud and tall, I answer with a crashing fall. Each swing resounds with a thunderous crack. Who am I with an axe on my back?

As it, describes the high. With air, it complies. A running ascension. Less a brace, it denies. If it’s first was a ‘T’: It’s how to keep the line. If your grip has a slip, You can kiss it goodbye.