by William Stafford

He was unswervingly cordial, unconcerned with passing accidents of existence, patient with people and things.

The  days slipped mystically by. Through all of the week we received no news from outside. We had no radio, and of course daily papers were taboo—and unavailable anyway. We had concentrated on an experiment in living. We had tried meditation. We had talked with a sin­cere, practicing, eloquent mystic. We had acquired an interest in Trabuco College—a place we now considered partly ours.