Porter's words have the lyric quality of poetry, but with novel-shaped characters and a crackling, mythic backbone. The myth turns out not to be Crow, but the idea that one can recover from grief: 'Moving on,' says the father, 'is for stupid people ... The pain that is thrust upon us let no man slow or speed or fix.'

Crow is both a literal thing and metaphor, imbued with human qualities: brutality, sympathy, a sense of humour. Most memorable of all in this small book is the stubborn domesticity of Porter's words, which ground the thrills and shocks of fantasy. This helps position grief as a sequence of sucker punches: 'I will stop finding her hairs,' says the father. Grief is the Thing with Feathers is a paean to Crow. But it is the truth of grief which dominates, typified by understated, lingering lines: 'We hope she likes us,' say the boys from their future.