Raising the Signal

Kicking off the weathered cedar post, I scrambled past a rusty bracket and hauled myself onto the curve of the curbside mailbox. High ground secured, but this watchtower needed a proper signal. Right at the side hung the red sheet-metal flag, dangling loose on its pivot rivet. I braced my boots against the rounded tin rim, grabbed the steel arm with both gloves, and cranked it upward against the stiff friction washer. With a sharp squeak and a solid click, it locked vertical. Leaning against my freshly raised mast, I had an unobstructed line of sight straight down the asphalt street. The whole block is officially under observation.