If you’ve ever lived in, or still live in a humid part of the country, you understand my reference to a dewy morning.

When I was going to elementary, junior high, and high school in Texas, I remember so many mornings where the dew was so heavy on the grass my shoes would be soaked by the time I walked through the front lawn to the street.

Here in Colorado we don’t deal with that nearly as much. I prefer the drier climate, but like so many things from the past, a dewy morning memory becomes pleasanter and pleasanter upon reflection.

Silly as that is I’m not immune to nostalgia. And one afternoon, in my car by the side of a dirt road in Eastern Kansas, I found myself writing about…

Those Dewy Morning Flutter-by Songs

If I could only look through those amber eyes again,
I could see those lovely childhood days.
The days my father cherished.
Those times that never perished.
I would run by his side
Through the dewy, silent morning,
And the flutter-by birds sang their morning songs…
Those dewy morning flutter-by songs.
Oh the clock would steal the hours,
And I’d be welded to the powers of the fireside twinkles,
And my father’s whispered stories.
All the draperies were drawn,
And very soon the room was gone…
Lost in the world of those dewy morning flutter-by songs.
When I think nowadays
How my life was seldom bored,
I feel so empty all inside.
I have lost the knack for freedom.
Bring me truthful things; I need them.
Give me someone’s side to run by
Through the dewy, silent morning.
And listen…to the flutter-by birds
Sing their dewy morning flutter-by songs…
Those beautiful songs,
Those songs of my past,
Those dewy morning flutter-by songs.

© Copyright Tony Funderburk 1975

Your whimsical writer,