We live near Babb.  Most days, we make the eight mile trip to actual Babb at least once, post office keys jangling in our pockets.  In the summertime, we’ll have a list of sundries to procure at Thronson’s General Store (“if we ain’t got it, you don’t need it”) taped to the steering wheel: half and half, lemons, vanilla ice cream.

We live across the street from Duck Lake, renowned for its trout fishing, on the ice and off.  It would take me less than five minutes to walk out my front door, up the driveway, past the tack barn and the pump house and the cabin, across the street, and into Duck Lake.  But we rarely go there, especially not in the summertime, when Glacier’s peaks whisper in the ever present winds, and our topo map is never properly folded and put away.

We really should, though.

After dinner tonight, I walked down the road, camera in hand, en route to supervise Honeydew hanging doors in Warehouse No. 2.

And Duck Lake surprised me with her quiet, east facing beauty.

And then I noticed the moonrise.  It really is the simple things, the moments money can’t buy.  Clear skies, warm breezes, and moonrise near Babb.

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