White spheres beside the path
An original literary non-fiction-style account of looking at dandelion seed heads beside a footpath.
The yellow flowers had disappeared so quietly that I could not remember the last one. In their place stood white spheres, each balanced on a narrow stem. From above, they looked like little gatherings of light. Crouching beside one, I found that most of the sphere was empty space, held together by lines too fine for my eye to follow without losing them.
A child further along the path lifted a seed head towards her mouth. Before she blew, she turned it once between her fingers, inspecting its completeness. Her first breath tilted the whole stem. The second opened a small dark patch in the white. A few pale points travelled sideways, stopped where I could no longer distinguish them from the air, and were gone.
The head beside my shoe had already lost half its seeds. Its remaining white fringe leaned away from the path, leaving a brown centre plainly exposed. It was less elegant than the complete sphere. It was also easier to see. I could follow individual lines from their crowded beginnings to the small tufts at their ends.
A bicycle passed behind me. The moving air disturbed the stems without stripping them bare. They nodded separately, recovered and became still at slightly different moments. When I stood, the white heads merged again into one pale border along the grass. I knew how much open space lay inside it now, though from that height it looked almost solid.
How does the writer use language to convey the delicate appearance of the seed heads and the changes in the observer's view?