The crooked finger of the Baja
Keeps the Sea of Cortes
From the waters of the Pacific
Creating another entity.
The Sea struts in its own glory
With miles of clean white sand
And clusters of age-old rocks.
Its depths teeming with life.
It is Shangri-la to the birds
Living a structured life
By a structured sea quite bountiful
And a Spa called Bird Island.
When Neptune in his rage bellows
The coves offer respite.
The storm subsides and the dolphins
In their joi de vivre perform.
From the shore the panorama
Like a renaissance painting
Holds you fast with quaint shrimp boats
And vessels for fun and frolic.
From the north come weary strangers
Seekin blessed sanctuary
From the angst of city life
Drawn by the call of the sea.
They wish to share the lovely nights
Languid, peaceful mornings
And at the end of day the sunset
Over the crooked finger.
Reprinted from the July 2000 edition of the RPTimes
