Stretching the Current, to join the Now. The middle sibling more proud than its brothers, yet shier than them both. Built of bulk, not twine, with skin of wrinkled mustard, hair of frazzled sapphire. He smiles upon the queen, greeting her at the station, guiding her subject’s steps from the smithies,  gallantly treading the path of which its walls collapse. Born at the colloquial quartet of the ides of march, his seed sewn from the steel valley. The second oldest sibling, viewed from the confluence, he hides behind the bastions. Head suspended high, but feet set in stone.
