Harlem had yet to be born, the globe had not been spun, but we knew how to whistle, how to call clappers and skirts on cue: That summer, we first met Georgia, she was an echo in four beats, we learned to hum her story. Mike played her with a licked reed but she was all brass, sharp like an abandoned railroad cutting through wild wood, and when she took stage, she made those trombone boys whisper, “Sweet Georgia, Sweet.”
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