Tate drew a deep breath and with that breath he began to think about air … wind … breezes …
And it happened! Suddenly he could see more than Foster moving her hands like a graceful maestro while the long, veil-like branches followed her, mimicked her. He could see the shimmering thermals of currents that flowed up, down, and around the trees, Foster, the waving grasses—the entire world.
Tate breathed deeply again. “Air.” He said the word softly, reverently, like a small, secret prayer and a slight ribbon of glistening current shifted direction and sweetly came to him, bringing with it Foster’s voice.
She was singing! Well, no. More accurately Foster was humming and air was moving the wall of willow branches in time to her song. What he could catch of the melody was familiar, and Tate was trying to place the song when Foster started trilling,
“Tweetly-tweetly-dee, tweetly-dee-dee!
Tweetly-tweetly-dee, tweetly-dee-dee!”
Tate’s eyes widened and he held his breath as he listened. Her voice was sweet and strong and filled with a lightness he’d never heard in her words before. Man, Foster can sing!
She played around with the melody that Tate was still trying to place as air followed her direction. And then Foster started singing. Softly, at first.
“He rocks in the treetops all day long
Hoppin and a-boppin’ and singing his song
All the little birdies on Jaybird Street
Love to hear the robin go tweet tweet tweet!”
Holy crap! Foster’s singing a Jackson 5 song!
As she got more and more into the song Foster began to dance, making sliding steps left and right in time to the words. Magically, magnificently, the boughs of the willows whispered the chorus with her.
“Rockin’ robin, rock rock
Rockin’ robin
Blow rockin’ robin
’Cause we’re really gonna rock tonight!”
Foster’s strong, beautiful voice grew more and more confident as she danced and sang with wind and willows.
Tate thought she was the coolest thing he’d ever seen. He said a silent thank-you to his g-ma (God rest her) for being a Motown fan—and to his g-pa for forcing him to take dorky swing dance lessons when all he’d wanted to do was play football. But G-pa had told him as a young boy that in order to properly woo a woman—seriously his G-pa used words like woo—he had to learn to dance. And as the old man had said, Really dance—not that air-humping crap that passes as dance moves today.
So, Tate wiped his sweaty palms on his jeans, took a deep breath—and then, trying to channel the suaveness for which G-pa claimed to be famous, Tate started walking to Foster while he harmonized with her on the next verse.
“Every little swallow, every chick-a-dee
Every little bird in the tall oak tree…”
Foster’s breath hitched and her song sputtered as she whirled around to face him, her face blazing red, but Tate just grinned and held out one hand to her. “Come on! Dance with me!”
She stared at his hand as the air seemed to hold its breath.
“Unless you’re worried about what other people—like me—think of you,” he said with a sly smile.
“Not for one second!” She took his hand and sang loud and strong.
“… The wise old owl, the big black crow
Flappin’ their wings singing go bird go!”
Tate picked up the beat easily. Of course he knew the old song, but it was more than that. As he spun Foster around, the air filled with her song and it seemed the leaves of the surrounding trees caught, held, and then began playing the melody with them.
Foster’s green eyes widened and he held her close, leading her in a swing so perfect he could almost see his G-pa’s nod of approval.
“Can you hear that?” she whispered.
“Yeah! Keep singing!” Tate twirled her around as he sang the chorus again with her.
“Rockin’ robin, rock rock!
Rockin’ robin
Blow rockin’ robin
’Cause we’re really gonna rock tonight!”
The air around them was filled with music. It was like someone had plugged nature into one of those electric keyboards that could make a zillion different musical sounds—only it wasn’t electric—it wasn’t man-made at all—it was their element, air, playing around them.
“Look, Foster! Look around us!”
Foster whistled the melody in time with the air orchestra as she danced in his arms. She tilted her head back and together they stared at the amazing currents of twirling, trilling air that glowed wisps of music in all the colors of a rainbow.
“It’s unbelievable!” Foster said, and when she began singing the last stanza the world was her accompaniment.
“Pretty little raven at the bird-band stand
Told them how to do the bob and it was grand
They started going steady and bless my soul
He out-bopped the buzzard and the oriole!”
Tate guided Foster through one of his favorite swing moves, the pretzel. Her grin blazed as they sang the chorus together again,
“Rockin’ robin, rock rock
Rockin’ robin
Blow rockin’ robin
’Cause we’re really gonna rock tonight!”
And then he tried to do a classic hip lift with her, which failed epically as he tripped over an unfortunately placed rock and fell on his butt with Foster flopped over his legs, giggling hysterically as the wind around them stilled and then faded to the normal sound of swishing through willow leaves.
Wiping her eyes, she stood and held out a hand to help him up, which he took, brushing grass and dirt off his butt.
“How in the hell do you know that old song?” she said between giggles.
He grinned back at her. “Who doesn’t know Motown?”
“Um, lots of people. Well, young people. The same people who don’t know how to dance like that.”
“Well, I have a grandpa who insisted I learn how to really dance.”
“Your grandpa made you take dance lessons?”
“Not just any dance lessons—swing dance. And, yep, twice a week for years. I used to love/hate it. A lot.”
“And now?” she asked, her eyes still shining with humor.