The Crow at the Intersection

It was the opening of his beak, silent in the car,
But the whole body of the crow was cawing.
A word only for crows, our sound for theirs,
But the whole body makes it, crouched,
Fluffed, forward leaning, into the air, to say
Who knows what to some other crow. I roll
Down the window in time to hear the answer
In the distance, some message passing there,
worth great effort. The car behind me honks,
And suddenly his head tilts down, listening.
As I roll beneath him, I hear his wild refrain,
Complex beyond my understanding: Caw.