Constrained by draft. Tugs, tankers, water taxis… oh my. Barely a soft wind. The warm air unable to cleanse itself from the grasp of pollution. Crows caw, perched on the corners of the old concrete buildings before they drop down into the piles of trash below. The hot sun creeps overhead like a golden lion stalking sweating prey. There’s no escaping the brutal heat as even the shade is victim to its claws. I sweat. I drip. I smile as my body relinquishes the toxins constrained in cold. I want to fly like that crow. I want to grow like that tree. I want to heal with a Buddhas smile. I am. I am alive. The city of Yangon is alive. Breathing the spices, the exhaust, and the melting pot of cultures from time past. I smell cigarettes. I taste coffee. My inner kettle screams as my handle awaits the humility and wonder that pours from my spout. Am I hungry? Tired? Full? Awake? I can’t seem to tell. Perhaps today I’ll just eat the air and rest in the chaos of the open sea.