shriek ovenbird With the window open I can hear the collective shrieks of five hundred children set loose on the school playground. From here they sound like birds—shrill calls carrying over the sea of summer grass, yellow and dry and dormant. When did I last let loose a high pitched chirrup of joy? I can’t even recall. It seems like the most uncouth thing to do from the vantage point of a woman slinking towards her mid-forties. But my body remembers it—the feeling of running, so fast that I’m on the brink of stumbling, but keeping my feet under me, evading whatever playful predator has been set upon us in a game of tag, the near miss of an outstretched hand, the sense of freedom, the note that rises from somewhere preceding my human mind, the sound that erupts and resolves in the air, something between a laugh and a scream, something that can’t be held back. Somewhere along the line I learned to slam the lid on joy like that. And if there was a key, I’ve forgotten where it’s hidden. It’s been a long time since I’ve even tried to open it. It’s been a long time since… 260619 what's it to you? who go blather from