More traffic, more paved roads, more housing density, and smaller lots all translate to fewer moose visits.  There are unseen visits, evidenced by tracks in grassy lawns or snowy yards.  But there are fewer observed visits, and many fewer surprise encounters while unloading the car, mowing the lawn, taking the dog out, wheeling out the garbage at 6 AM, or whatever. Constantly browsing means constantly moving, an evolved defense against overgrazing the food source and predators.  

But when moose do drop by, it is with the same odd mix of outsize assurance and wariness as before. Not gracefully sprightly like deer, moose nonetheless display stately, confidant, muscular power; their usual mien - appearing to be only a large, motionless, placid, browsing shape content to munch leaves and twigs and bark - conceals their ability to transition almost instantaneously into a very large beast striding seven feet at a step, gracefully and rapidly disappearing from view, or, dramatically more interesting, into a very large beast with the agility of a sumo wrestler and a violent interest in protecting calves or selecting a mate.

Standing at roadside, eyeing traffic, head turning slightly, a mother waits. For what signal? The calf's readiness?  They start off, with oddly dainty steps, mincing as if in fashion heels across a street into another yard or tree island.  They are not in the wilderness; they are roughly in the geographical center of a town of 400,000 people.   How did she and the calf negotiate multiple lanes and safe zones across divided roads? Was it simply dumb luck or conscious awareness that got them here?  

This mother and calf dropped by in September.

The calf looks small next to mom.

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But the calf is already 450 pounds or so and well-fed and well-muscled.
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The mother is big and watchful.
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Mincing steps, seven-foot stride

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