The sign, too worn to be legible, creaked in the wind.

The sign over the door creaked in the wind.

A sign creaked in the wind: Dr. Alan Benedict.

Above me, the gaily painted signs of the taverns and food shops creaked in the wind and mocked my hunger.

The sign creaked as it swung to and fro in the dark, misty air.

The sign on the village pub, the Shamrock, creaked and groaned in a breeze that tasted of rain from the sea.

The inn was dark and shuttered, the sign creaked in the pre-dawn wind.

In front of the building a battered sign bearing the name Slack Horse Inn creaked back and forth from a post.

A weather-beaten sign creaked wildly back and forth above a heavy door.

Above, their signs, of scarred wood and beaten brass, creaked in the warm breeze.