I write with ink when plucked from sky, or rise as spikes when danger’s nigh. In gentle hand or bristled hide, a pen for words, or a shield of spines.

I’m easy to pick from the bunch If you want to eat me, you gotta get me naked first.

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.

I have a neck, but no head to wear, and sing through strings stretched taut with care.