There are some stories that you absorb. I don't mean in the sense that you become completely immersed in the story and can't wash the dishes until you finish -- but in the sense that the images, the themes, the messages seep inside you somewhere and become part of you and the way you view life. Sometimes you don't realize how much so until later on, when you reread the story, and you recognize the origins of some of your ideas, personal symbols, dreams, beliefs, those things you carry around inside. Little, Big was that way for me. (For fun and rather simple example, the house George Mouse settles in at the end of his journey looms large in my own set of personal symbols -- and the guide Fred Savage has a voice in my inner dialog, verifying my thoughts with a "know what I'm sayin'?") All these years later, I find myself wondering over the ending. In a way, it's always there with me. Because I absorbed it. :)Ka is that way as well. I feel hesitant to describe it, there is so much more that I am prepared to sit here and write. But it's a beautiful story, especially meaningful to a person who muses, who worries, over death. Perhaps it's a story about what death has meant to humans over humankind's lifetime, our preoccupation with it, our obsession with those who have died esp. those who are "our people," our attempts to evade it, our stories about how death came about anyway.In another way, it's a story about a certain loss of innocence and the ability to be completely present in this life. To a crow: dead is dead. Until he begins to strike up relationships with humans and becomes involved in their preoccupations for eternal life and caring for ancestors, saints, loved ones who have already died. Then his story ceases to be simply concerned with eating, nesting, and gossiping during the winter roost -- but becomes a human one: plenty of long journeys, loss, learning about grief, fleeting happiness, revenge, hard-won wisdom, acceptance. And filled with stories.So it's also a story about stories. It's filled with them. Our creation stories, animal legends, personal mythologies.It's so much more than a paltry review like this could convey. Beautifully written, as any reader of Crowley's would expect. Approachable, which some readers might not expect. Deeply satisifying, as few, few books are.The entire time I was reading it, I felt that John Crowley had purposely written this book as a gift to his readers: past, present, and future. I thought it might be... a swan song. Or not.