The moose (plural)

It is a truth universally acknowledged that when I enter the state of Maine, the resident moose all decide, unanimously, in unspoken but clear communication, upon a course of action, to wit, to vacate the state. Perhaps they decide to vacation over the border, perhaps they take the opportunity to visit relatives in New Hampshire. It is not known where they go. It is known that they go elsewhere. When I am in the state of Maine there is not a moose to be seen.

Or such was the case until yesterday (longer ago than that) morning, on Route 201 between Moscow and Bingham, when two moose cows (cow moose?) wandered out from a wooded swamp and stood idly at the edge of the road. Where I saw them. Where we saw them quite well. Where I managed to get a picture of them.

Of course I was and am excited and grateful to have finally, at long last, seen a moose.

But then I have to wonder and worry. Did these two cows not get the message? Are they out of the moose-loop? Were they bucking a trend? Did they lose their friends and family who are now safely in Canada? Do they suffer from a congenitally lousy sense of direction? So many questions.