twenty volcanoes are erupting on earth right now

and why not let them; my son is asleep in the car the radio plays the skies are grey the windows are nearly shut a delicate breeze converges with our transcendence we are being transported as he possibly dreams about another football league he wants to invent or, as he mentioned before hopping in the car he wanted to leave the tennis early to write his own song at home he wants to relate, impart and begin his goodbyes as the gale invading the vehicle is like the tempest of ideas burgeoning his mind i pull up to traffic lights and i wonder if such joy exists in the other cars around us