Orderly fields where the giants rest, cradling the sweetest of treasures on their arms. Whispers of a gentle breeze and soothing rain would cause the faintest of stirs, but ultimately, they only slumber on.

I’m not a cat, but I can really fling, I toss big rocks like it’s my favorite thing. I stretch back tight, then let them fly, What mighty machine am I?

Round and round the sun we go, each day marked in a row. My pages turn, seasons flow, keeping track of time's gentle show.

I glide but never wander, I press without a hand. I’m trusted before meetings, Yet feared when left to stand. What am I?

Thousand upon thousands of grains am I, beneath the sun and open sky. I line the shores and deserts wide, where small hands build, and waves decide.