A fair's shiny treasure, bound to your wrist, lest you'll let it slip.

A modern day tumbleweed, the streets are littered, in your market that’s super, or sealing goods delivered. It hangs from a limb to compliment style, while holding what’s needed, when you go out for a while.

It can hang or be stuck, Done on walls, trains and trucks, A game for the kids, Or through phones, as adults.

A living line of green I stand, Between two plots of careful land. I block the view, but not the breeze, Shaped by hands and buzzing bees. What am I?

It begins a race, Or stops a game A bird's call for a mate, Or a human's, on the sidewalk