The title names spring’s omens, yet what the music leaves standing is not pastoral weather. It is spring as force that takes the body first: a stamping pulse that locks the limbs into a communal beat while accents keep leaning off the expected grid, so entrainment arrives without ease. The recording makes the bodies it summons feel caught inside repetition that works like possession, a single hammered sonority turned into law while brass and woodwind cut across it as signals rather than comfort.

This is augury written as motor grip. Pattern holds hard enough that pressure builds and thins without ever becoming gentle; the orchestra stages awakening as something done to bodies, not a landscape they stroll through. When the final chord hits and cuts off, the residue is not bloom. It is the knowledge that spring, here, arrives as ritual demand—uneven, collective, already past the point of refusal.