One bassoon, alone, high at the top of its range — thin, reedy, nothing under it yet.

A second reed slips in below, and the lonely line becomes a pair.

Flutes spread a bright layer on top — the sound grows taller, still weightless.

High trills flutter over held chords; the air shivers a little.

A clarinet steps forward, its line lilting up and over.

English horn takes the lead — darker grain, steadier pressure.

Short figures flicker between the winds, trading quickly.

Horns arrive underneath, and the floor grows warmer and firmer.

Brass chords swell and sink in waves beneath the busy upper lines.

The lines pile up and push louder — everything leans into the climb.

It crests — the loudest, fullest point so far.

As fast as it came, the surge pulls back — shimmer and moving air again.

Out of the calm, a clarinet sings — clear, unhurried.

Underneath, the motion quiets but tightens — small, regular, insistent.

The pulse takes on a heavy, leaning grip — the pressure feels denser now.

It eases off — the churn loosens and the air thins.

Another step back: the heavy layer withdraws, and only light threads remain.

One last gathering — then the sound lets go into silence.