Crop circles

"Who is she, Pa? said Tom as he stared through the iron bars of Clear County's only jail cell.
"No idea, son," said his father as he unclipped his gun belt and slung it on the table. "Cricker brought her in."
Cowering in the corner, with her knees clasped to her chest, was a young girl in dirty rags and with a mop of tangled, sandy hair on her head.
When Tom's eyes met hers his body jolted, like a bolt of lightening had just speared him. In his mind's eye he saw his mother mopping his brow when he was sick.
He shook his head.
"Where did he find her?" Tom asked.
"Wandering through one of Hamley's corn field. Damn old coot thought she was making crop circles."
Tom laughed. "Like Mom," he muttered.
"Now, now, Tom, what did I tell you about dragging up the past. It's a whole world of hurt. You've gotta move on. She would have wanted that."
Tom sat back on a wooden bench, unable to take his eyes from the girl.
"I wish you had let me see her, before she died."
"What good would that have done?" said Tom's dad as kicked back and lit a pipe. As ribbons of wispy smoke curled through the air the girl stood up.
She unfurled her body and in doing so her tangled hair blossomed into flowing golden tresses, and her tattered dress burst into a riot of floral colours. As she stepped forward she held her arms out toward Tom.
Mesmermised, Tom walked towards her, drawn in by her angelic form and her soft voice, like a feather on a breeze.
"Goodbye Tom," she said.