A few nights ago, I dreamed I was a hawk.
Tawny brown and gold in colour, flying high, soaring on wind currents, I could feel the wind ruffling my feathers, while below me the landscape rushed along, gently rolling hills, in shades of brown and ochre, covered with low scrubby bushes in shades of green, some with flowers.
Most unusual for me, most of my dreams are of houses. Houses I recognise in my dreams as places I have lived, but in my waking hours I know that I have never seen these homes.
So why would I suddenly dream I was a hawk?
In real life, I'm not a high flyer, not by any stretch of the imagination, although I do enjoy plane flight.