It had been a drifter,
getting by on odd jobs:
guy wire for a weathervane,
the main spring in the crouch of a cat,
a corn broom’s binding cord.
It had learned to sing the wind’s several laments,
to play with its prey,
It happened by
just when the banjo was holding
auditions for a new first string,
the fifth string got the part.
Its square tuning peg was a perfect fit
for that round & bottomless hole.
The banjo now began
to resemble itself,
like a forest that fills
the spaces between the trees
with more trees.