Finish Line

Time is ticking away, and yet the tortoise has yet to cross the finish line.
Seasons change, and still there is no sign.
Families grow, families move out and others move in, and still the tortoise delays.
Generations pass.
The finish line fades to a memory, of a race few who live where there to see.
A tortoise crosses the buried line, chips of paint peeking out beneath the leaves and grime.
A young hare hops by, and laughs at the slow tortoise.
"Slow, am I?" the tortoise rasps, and the young hare pauses to stare. "How about a race then, young cottontail?"
And so the finish line was unearthed, and a young hare darted off with a confident cheer.
While the tortoise looked around the clearing, again vibrant with excited creatures, and took one slow step after another back toward an ever-distant finish line.