A long first movement. Snow fell slowly, relentless. No wind, so the sticky whiteness adhered to every surface, twig. Every inch of ground.
The world went white and then darkness fell.
The woodwinds were silent for a long pause and are still silent today. Not an oboe — an ill-wind that no one blows good — to be heard. Only a piccolo twitter from an early Carolina wren (wondering how he wound up in this symphony when he was sure he was playing the Rites of Spring) breaks the slow, almost ponderous progressions of the strings.
A long symphony is underway. Weeks long. It is only for those with the most patient ears, those willing to sit through the shiny but slow middle until at last, the orchestra breaks free.
Then, bring forth the wild excitement of the Molto allegro con vivo third and final movement. With flowers, please.