The Truth About Tigers

The sky bends beneath city lights,
its vast quiet fractured—
and yet the hunter emerges,
sharp-edged, unbroken.

Once, he anchored me—
half a world away,
etched into desert winds,
his watchful eyes a tether
to what I could not hold:
home, family, something unnamed.

Time slips, soft as owl’s breath,
years folding into shadows,
a presence felt, unseen,
somewhere at the mind’s edge,
like a promise carved in starlight.

But tonight, I look up;
his belt gleams bright,
as if memory itself
has taken shape in the dark,
steady, silent, unchanging.

It’s good to see you again,
old friend. 

Written in response to Sammy’s Weekend Writing Prompt #389: Write a poem or a piece of prose in exactly 99 words using the word “Hunter”.