Wavy jet-black was the young boy's hair. Seated on a banquito, a small wooden bench, he picked and strummed his seashore-colored Cuatro.
The lute guitar seemed olden. The strings twisted at headstock.
Its tuners careworn and loose from continual bad tuning. The rosette was ripped, and the bridge clinging to black wire tape. Gooey adhesive on the soundboard, vibrating to his improvised tune.