The Firebird arrives. Strings and woodwinds shimmer, and the high woodwinds throw in short, bright interjections, like light catching feathers. Then her variation: flutes, piccolo and clarinets in flurries, trills and leaps, never settling on a tune.
That is the characterization. Kashchei’s music is chromatic and creeping; the Firebird’s is chromatic and fast. Both are magic, and neither gets a melody. Melodies are for humans, and the humans arrive tomorrow.
The movement lasts about a minute and a half. Every wind player in the orchestra has spent longer than that practicing it.