A moose walks through a swamp like the swamp owes it money. Antlers wide enough to hang laundry on. Legs built for wading through water that would drown a horse. Six hundred pounds of shoulder, moving at the exact speed it wants to move, which is often not fast, because there's no reason to hurry when you're the biggest thing in the room.

They say a moose can dive fifteen feet underwater for a mouthful of pond weed and come up looking mildly annoyed about it. Norse settlers supposedly believed the moose was too stubborn to be tamed by man or god, which tracks — this is an animal that eats twigs for a living and still outweighs your car. It doesn't posture. It doesn't perform. It just stands in the middle of the road, daring the world to ask it to move.

No natural grace. No apologies for it either. A moose has never once tried to look sleek, and it has never once needed to.

Big. Broad. Unbothered by scale. If you've ever taken up more space than the room was built for and refused to feel bad about it, congratulations — you've found your shirt.