The Sign at the Top

The summit has a sign. The sign is blank.

You have walked a long way for a blank sign, and you are tired in the specific way of having had a goal. The flag snaps. The wind smells of wet stone and, faintly, of a cigarette, though no one is smoking.

Below you, if you turn, the whole country is lying down in the dusk. A highway. A gas station like a lit jar. A river. Far to the east, as though it were a few miles off, a turning white light.

It is the same height as you are. You are sure of this and have no way to know.

The sign remains blank. You have a pen. It doesn't seem right to fill it in on behalf of the mountain.