A banjo maker in the mountains,
 when looking out for wood to carve
 an instrument, will walk among
 the trees and knock on trunks. He'll hit
 the bark and listen for a note.
 A hickory makes the brightest sound;
 the poplar has a mellow ease.
 But only straightest grain will keep
 the purity of tone, the sought --
 for depth that makes the licks sparkle.
 A banjo has a shining shiver.
 Its twangs will glitter like the light
 on splashing water. But the face
 of banjo is a drum of hide
 of cow, or cat, or even skunk.
 The hide will magnify the note,
 the sad of honest pain, the chill
 blood song, lament, confession, haunt,
 as tree will sing again from root
 and vein and sap and twig in wind
 and cat will moan as hand plucks nerve,
 picks bone and cell and gut and pricks
 the heart as blood will answer blood
 and love begins to knock along the grain.