Hummingbird

Before this valley had any other name, it was Stó:lō land, Coast Salish territory, and the pesk'a was already here. Pesk'a is the word for hummingbird in Halq'eméylem, the language of the Stó:lō people. Stand by a feeder on a warm afternoon and you'll hear one before you see it. A little whir, a pause, and there it is, floating an arm's length away, deciding if you're worth its time. Once a hummingbird finds a good feeder it keeps coming back, because it remembers every flower it has ever visited.

The orange ones are Rufous, and they have a reputation. A Rufous weighs less than a nickel and will still chase off a bird twice its size, then sit on a branch like it's waiting for a rematch. It flies most of the way across the continent and back every year just to spend a few months here, which is a lot of nerve for something that small. The green ones are Anna's, around all year now, and their colour never sits still. Look again a second later and the same bird has changed.

For a lot of people on this coast, the first hummingbird of the year is how you know spring has really arrived. In Coast Salish art the hummingbird is a messenger of joy. There's a story that gets told about why it never stops moving from flower to flower: it was sent to thank the flowers for making the world a nicer place, and it just never finished the job.

That's the bird on these mugs, prints, blankets, and pieces of jewellery, made by Indigenous artists and brought to TwoChiefs. Kw'atset te p'esk'a, goes the Halq'eméylem saying: look at the hummingbird. Once one shows up at the window, that part takes care of itself.