The tree was a blot on the horizon or the stretch between heaven and earth.
The vagabundo walked down the track and watched the tree grow.
The house was surrounded by an orchard that was filled with jabuticaba and star-fruit trees. The fruits were rubbery, so they fell to the ground bouncing about reliving the experience of falling and confusing the dogs who would sniff the star-fruit under the jabuticabeiras and vice-versa. In the midst of the fruit trees stood a tree that soared over the big house gate.
From its top one could see the horizon beyond the corral and the hill from which smoke was rising. And from the highway, two hectares north of the house, one could see the top of the tree sprouting out of the valley on which the farm was located, looking deceptively small and vulnerable.
The tree caused the vagabundo to break his wanderings across the southern States of Brasil and to turn down the dirt track that led to the farm.
The tree, it seemed to him, knew its place and its height in relation to dist…