Back to the goshawk.
There was something beautiful about that bird of prey, even as it was ripping the still fluttering woodpigeon to pieces. Even that bit was edifying though I would prefer that nobody heard me say that. It wasn’t the gore of the scene that pulled me in but the purity of the event which was as scary as hell and not a little bit repulsive. Somehow though, the goshawk and the woodpigeon seemed to be acting out something for the world to take notice of. Imagine if the woodpigeon was a teenager like me, wandering through its normal day, flitting from branch to branch whilst making those warm cooing noises that they make. Imagine it was me with my baseball cap pulled down so that it was difficult to see my eyes. One moment I would be lost in my own importance and the nonchalance of just being alive, hands in pockets, not bothering anybody, and the next moment, out of the ordinariness of a weekday sky came a thunderbolt of death whose sole intention was me. In that instant, I would be dragged from the tree, swooped to the ground and then picked apart, breast cavity first, as this has all the juicy parts in it. And in that moment I would have stopped being anything living and would have just become an object to be devoured. Instead of being something with qualities that we can empathise with, it merely becomes something like a plastic bag with food inside. That’s what they do in supermarkets, they turn parts of animals into never-having-lived bits of food inside plastic. The plastic that is now killing the Earth.
So the goshawk is chasing me through my dreams and no matter how small I am trying to make myself, it keeps on coming. And it almost gets there before I do the waking up trick, the waking up and screaming, but I don’t scream and neither does anyone else.
There’s a knock at my door. I’m still beneath my duvet and pull it over my face a little more. The knock comes again and I try not to breathe. Something is telling me that I don’t want to get up and answer the door because I most certainly would not like to meet what is on the other side. I strain a little to peek above the parapet of the duvet. There is somebody outside my room, somebody who is all wing and talons and feathers, somebody who once looked like a human but is no longer one. And it is then that I realise that I am in a false wake, that I haven’t come up from my dream but have been dragged even further into the last one.
And that is when the handle of my bedroom door starts to turn. And that is when I start to scream my inner scream but the sound does not come.
If you see a hawk in your dreams, it usually means that you have a lot of enemies in your life.
Another meaning is that you should pay more attention to people around you because someone may deceive you.