“Rested and refreshed, he arises and finds a brook close by, more of the burbling-type as opposed to babbling, and splashes the pure, cold mountain waters on his face then drinks deeply. On the way back to the door, he finds what he came for: a dandelion gone to seed. Its capitulum is a perfect white globe of fluff. Plucked with utmost care so as to not lose a single cypsela, he carries it in his left hand and cups his right hand around it protectively while walking through the meadow and to the door. Exiting with caution then closing the door tightly, he steps back to the living quarters and heads right for the front door.
Still shielding the diaphanous ball, he flicks on the light and walks onto the front porch. In the radiance of the seventy-five-watt light bulb, grasping the stem of the dandelion in prayerful hands, he lifts it to within a couple inches of his mouth and blows on it with preternatural skill. Through uncanny aim and exacting breath, only one parachuted seed is released.”