My elder scrapes the clouds. My younger kisses the plain. I stand between their stories. What am I?

I rush through forests, I slip through town, I sparkle in sunlight, I murmur in brown. I carry leaves and twigs that fall, I’m not a road, but I still crawl.

Small and round, I came from western Asia, then spread through the Mediterranean. I can be pressed into juice, or fermented into something more. Personally, I prefer the ones that taste like cotton candy.

I’m where boats sleep and gently rock, With ropes and bumpers, I’m not a sock. Walk on my boards, hear seagulls squawk, Where are you standing?

Round on the ends, hi in the middle. Where skylines offer a curious victual.