In Response to Previous Poem

Not the martingale, not the chicken
we bought for the Greek dinner, nor
the sound of any human voice or
feet's sashay by the table, much less
our faces, never only the window porch,
in no apparent way the wind whistling
by the house's corner, so they have
seemed, the crows on our window porch
like any swan where the water is.
It's not as much that nothing is ever
good enough, as I see it, it's more a wish
to move away from what they have:
the boughs / the barn roofs / the sky
where endlessness is. Does that mean
the crows by themselves want to be
tethered? Let's take the roosting crows inside.