Bowman’s first look at the world made new was in late morning. The sun was bright and he had been lying dazed and unconscious on the field of battle since at least the previous day. As his eyes took in the blue of the sky a few lazy clouds drifted through his vision. He did not look; he merely saw. He had awakened to a state of being he had never known, at least not since the day he first opened his eyes some twenty-three years before. He had no thought, no reference; he simply was. And what passed before him was taken in without question, without category. Large dark birds circled above, the universal symbol of death. But he was pure life. He did not at first take up his body; the singularity of his consciousness and the timeless purity of the moment required nothing. And so he lay, and he was…